Freedom Is Just a State of Mind
by Ross7
Summary: An 'incredible bachelor pad' becomes a 'prison' for our favorite dark-haired paramedic and his fair-haired friend.
1. Chapter 1

"**Freedom Is Just A State of Mind"**

**By Ross7**

**Chapter One  
**

Paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto exited Rampart General Hospital's Emergency Receiving, stowed their medical supplies away, and then climbed wearily back into their restocked rescue squad.

John pulled his passenger's door shut and then turned to face his partner. "Man! I'm glad we don't have to pull double-shifts very often."

"Yeah. They tend to be brutal all right," Roy conceded. "Think we'll make it back—_this_ time?"

"I wouldn't bet on it," his partner gloomily predicted.

The two of them had been trying—unsuccessfully—to make it back to their fire station for the past eight hours.

Roy started the truck up and began easing it out of its designated parking slot.

They'd only moved forward about five feet, when their radios began emitting the dreaded *_bleep_* *_bleep_* sound.

The rescue vehicle's completely exhausted occupants exchanged a pair of exceedingly pained glances.

"**Squad 51…What is your status?**"

"Do I hafta answer that?" John deadpanned.

His partner was forced to smile. "I'm afraid so."

Gage grabbed their dash-mounted radio's mic' and thumbed its 'SEND' button. "L.A., Squad 51 is available at Rampart General on follow up…"

"**10-4, 51…Standby for a response…**"

Several seconds passed, then more bleeping *_bleeps*_ sounded.

"**Squad 51…Respond to a vehicle accident with injuries…at the intersection of Mullen Ave. and Cheshire Blvd…Cross-streets: Gary and Oneida…The intersection of Mullen and Cheshire…ambulances responding…Time out: 07:28.**"

"Roger that, L.A.," John wearily replied. "Squad 51 responding." He replaced the mic', reached back over his right shoulder, snatched his helmet from its hook, placed it upon his head and snugged up its chinstrap. "We've always said, we've been doing this for so long, that we could probably do it in our sleep. Guess THEY intend to test that theory out, huh," he lightly reasoned and flashed his equally exhausted friend a forced smile.

* * *

They reached the street entrance. Roy flipped their firetruck's lights and siren on. "Could be worse," he surmised, sounding equally insincere. "THEY could a' called us out—_before_ we had a chance to restock."

Gage grimaced at the gruesome thought.

When it came to composing 'worse case' scenarios, no one could hold a candle to his partner.

* * *

Just as they were about to reach the accident site, their radios began emitting more annoying *_bleep*_s.

"**Squad 51, cancel…Return directly to quarters…"**

The rescue truck's occupants glanced at one another again, this time, looking stunned.

John snatched their radio's mic' back up. "L.A., Squad 51 is already on scene," he reported, as his buddy braked to a stop and jumped out. "We intend to follow through with the call." He saw a police officer, with blood-smeared hands, motioning for them to hurry over to one of the three wrecked vehicles that were scattered about the intersection. "We have badly injured people here—in need of immediate medical attention!"

"**Negative, 51…**"the dispatcher patiently came back. "**Cancel and return directly to quarters…Squad 16 has been dispatched to your location…**"

"Fine, L.A.," John responded, sounding equally cool and calm. "Squad 51 will_ return directly to quarters_—just as soon as our back-up arrives."

"**NEGATIVE, 51!**" the dispatcher blurted back, much more assertively. "**It is imperative that you cancel and return to quarters—immediately!**"

The paramedic stared down at their truck's dash-mounted radio in both shock and disbelief. "Negative, L.A.! Whatever it is—can wait! These people—can't!" he practically shouted and started to replace the mic'.

"**Squad 51, it is critical to the health and well-being of those people that you do NOT treat them!**"

* * *

Roy was in the process of emptying their squad's side compartments. He caught that latest comment from headquarters and froze—right in mid-reach.

* * *

His partner re-thumbed the mic's 'SEND' button. "L.A., Squad 51. What the heck is **that** supposed to mean?" the paramedic demanded, sounding every bit as _miffed_ as he now looked.

"**Squad 51, cancel and return to quarters…and the 'situation' will be explained to you…Repeat, cancel and return to quarters—directly and immediately!**"

Gage glanced up, as his partner suddenly appeared, just outside his door's open window.

"I'm beginning to think that we'd better do as THEY say," Roy regrettably announced.

John sighed in surrender and then thumbed the mic's 'SEND' button one last time. "10-4, L.A….Squad 51 canceling and returning—directly and immediately—to quarters."

"**10-4, Squad 51**," the dispatcher promptly came back, the relief evident in his voice.

John slammed the mic' back onto its clip and whipped his helmet off. The flustered paramedic stared off across the debris-strewn intersection at the accident victims so desperately in need of help—_their_ help!

A look of disbelief, closely followed by one of profound confusion, filled the patrolman's face, as the firemen suddenly started driving off.

"We have to go!" the dark-haired paramedic called out to the completely overwhelmed officer. "But another squad is coming!"

The cop remained confused, but nodded his acknowledgement of the retreating rescuer's message.

* * *

Gage emitted an audible gasp of exasperation and slammed his left fist down—hard—on the back of their seat. "Da-amn!"

DeSoto shot his flustered friend a nervous glance. "What do you suppose it is?"

"I can't even _begin_ to imagine!" his partner angrily replied. "How could THEY possibly figure that we would _hurt_ those people back there **more** than we would _help_ them?" The paramedic suddenly recalled his crack about the two of them working in their sleep. "Unle-ess…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless THEY think we're too tired to work."

"Do you think we're too tired to work?"

"No. We've both pulled double-shifts before…plenty of times. Heck. Once, we even worked 48 hours—straight, without any sleep, at all. At least, this time, we were able to get one or two hours in…that first night," John paused and turned to his partner. "Do you think we're too tired to be working right now?"

"If I thought—for an instant—that I was too tired to be working right now," DeSoto declared, "I wouldn't **be** working right now."

"I know," Gage whole-heartedly agreed. "Me, neither."

"You know that…and I know that," Roy solemnly surmised. "But do THEY know that?"

"If THEY don't, THEY will," John assured him. "Just as soon as we _return—directly and immediately—to quarters_," the peeved paramedic bitterly parroted.

The pair rode on in silence for a few blocks.

Until John suddenly had an even more horrifying thought. "Ro-oy?"

"Yeah?"

"What if that _isn't_ it?"

The two fatigued firemen exchanged a couple of extremely anxious glances.

**TBC**

Author's note:

_What can I say...I told yous that my muse was fickle. lol _

_It insists on working on two different E! fics **at the same time**. :)_

_Alas, I am but a humble, and obedient, slave of my E! muse. lol_

_Hope you guys will find **both** E! fics enjoyable! *fingers crossed*  
_

_:)Ross7  
_


	2. Chapter 2

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Two**

Gage and DeSoto finally made it back to their quarters.

Captain Stanley was standing out front, by the flagpole. Hank motioned for DeSoto to drive up the little alley that ran alongside of the redbrick building.

"What the…?" the Squad's bewildered passenger pondered.

Its driver did as directed and pulled into the little alley that led to the parking lot behind the Station.

* * *

Roy turned the corner and braked to a stop.

The two paramedics sat there, staring out their rescue truck's windshield at a white ambulance-type van.

Four men, wearing airtight white suits and self-contained breathing apparatus, were standing outside the van.

The two firemen slowly turned to face one another, but both remained too stunned to move or speak.

Roy pulled the Squad ahead and parked.

Two of the white-suited figures stepped up to the stationary vehicle and jerked its doors open.

"Firemen John Gage and Roy DeSoto?" one inquired, his solemn voice muffled by his air-mask.

Firemen Gage and DeSoto somehow managed to get their still reeling heads to nod.

"Put these on and come with us, please," their questioner prompted and passed them each a pair of disposable coveralls.

The firemen glanced down at the coveralls and then back up at each other.

"Somehow," DeSoto dazedly remarked, "I seriously doubt that this has anything to do with THEM being concerned about the two us being overly tired."

"Yea-eah," Gage glumly agreed. "What's goin' on?" he asked the white-suited figure standing beside his open door. "What **is** 'all this' about?"

The guy pulled a small billfold from the front pocket of his haz-mat suit and flashed the fireman an official-looking photo I.D.. "Jerome Newlin. Los Angeles County Health Department. The two of you have been placed under 'maximum quarantine'."

"Maximum quarantine?" the pair repeated, speaking in perfect unison.

"Why-y?" John demanded. "What do we got?"

"I'm sorry," Mr. Newlin stiffly replied. "But we are not at liberty to discuss the matter here. If you will just slip into those coveralls and come with us, I assure you, all of your questions will be answered to your satisfaction."

The quarantined firemen glanced nervously at one another and then reluctantly climbed out of their rescue truck and into their disposable coveralls.

The other two white-suited figures approached, carrying two more self-contained breathing apparatus.

The paramedics slid the coveralls over their uniforms and then slipped their arms through the straps of their SCBAs. The pair got their tanks' air flowing and their facemasks situated and sealed.

The four guys in the white haz-mat suits then escorted the two guys in the turquoise coveralls over to the van.

"Where are you taking us?" Roy wondered.

"To the Pacific Fleet Naval Base in the L.A. Harbor," Mr. Newlin replied. "The two of you are going to be staying aboard an aircraft carrier—the Fitzsimmons—in the same quarters that are used to house the astronauts, while they remain quarantined after possible exposure to unknown contaminants in space."

The Fitzsimmons' 'special guests' glanced at one another again, looking completely overwhelmed. The pair paused for an instant or two before finally, reluctantly, climbing up into the back of the van. A bench had been bolted to the floor, in the center of its back cargo space. They dropped down onto it. The vehicle's back doors were slammed and locked, and they drove off in silence.

* * *

Once they were well underway, John turned to their host and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?" Newlin responded.

"Are 'we' at liberty to discuss the matter no-ow?" John hopefully inquired.

"Yes. But I'd prefer to let Dr. Vandertine explain the situation," Newlin begged off.

The paramedic's coverall'ed body stiffened and his blood suddenly ran cold. "_Eric Vandertine_?" John numbly asked, once he'd gotten his ability to speak back. "From the Center for Communicable Disease Control in Atlanta?"

Newlin seemed somewhat impressed. "Why, yes. You _know_ Dr. Vandertine?"

John nodded, numbly. "We met two years ago. I was his guinea pig for about a week, while he was researching a new strain of viral influenza—" he stopped speaking and turned to his partner. "Roy, if Eric Vandertine is involved in…_this_, we might be in for some trouble—some big, BI-IG trouble."

Roy swallowed hard and suddenly looked even more worried than he'd already been feeling. "Great!" he mumbled—er, grumbled back, sounding _most_ insincere.

* * *

Forty-five extremely fretful minutes later, the van finally came to a stop. Its back doors were unlocked and pulled open.

The paramedics stepped out of the van and onto Pier 11 of the U.S. Naval Shipyard, in L.A. Harbor.

They were escorted up a long walkway ramp and onto the deserted deck of an aircraft carrier.

The Fitzsimmons' guests were ushered across the deck and up to an odd-looking, window-less metal cubicle, about 30'x20' in dimension.

"This is it, gentlemen!" Newlin dramatically exclaimed. "This quarantine cubicle will be your home for the next few days—or, until you've both been given a clean bill of health. You'll find that it has all of the modern conveniences—and more! Color television, state-of-the-art stereo, well-stocked refrigerator, exercise equipment, well-rounded music and literary libraries, health and grooming items, two complete disposable wardrobes—you name it, it's in there! And, if it's not, well, you just name it, and we'll see to it that you get whatever it is that you need. Dr. Vandertine should be along shortly. So, why don't the two of you go on in and get settled," he ordered more than asked. "We're going to go get decontaminated now, but we'll be back as soon as the doctor gets here. Okay?"

His audience was only half-listening. The two paramedics were pre-occupied with more important matters. The two men were currently racking their brains, trying to recall 'when' and 'where' they might have picked up some potentially lethal virus.

"Okay?" Newlin repeated.

"Huh?" Roy reluctantly snapped back to cold, harsh reality. "Yeah. Sure."

"Good!" their host determined. "Decompress!" he told the naval midshipman who had accompanied them up to the cubicle.

The sailor nodded. The young man then proceeded to pull a key from the front pocket of his uniform and place it into a special locking mechanism that was mounted beside the cubicle's sealed door.

There was a low '_hum_' and then a loud '_hiss_'ing sound, as the airtight seal around the door was broken.

The steel portal slid open and Newlin motioned for the firemen to step inside. "Remember, gentlemen, neither of you will be allowed out until you've _both_ been cleared. So don't even think of leaving, because you _can't_. This entire compartment is atmospherically controlled. Once the seal has been re-established, you will—literally—be living in a 'world of your own'. If you have any questions about how to 'run' things, there's a sheet of instructions posted on the wall, right beside the control panel." He stopped speaking and motioned, once again, for their guests to step into their new 'home away from home'.

The firemen glanced uncertainly at one another, and then did as directed.

John drew his sagging shoulders back and boldly stepped across the quarantine cubicle's open threshold.

Roy exhaled a resigned sigh and followed his friend inside.

* * *

The two 'maximum quarantined' firemen winced, as the heavy steel door '_hiss_'ed shut behind them and its automatic locking mechanism '_click_'ed back into place. They gave the locked door a glum glance and slowly started sliding their self-contained breathing apparatus off. They placed their facemasks on the floor and rested their air-tanks against the door and then had a little look around.

Appropriately, the compartment's décor was 'space age'. Furniture was sparse and futuristic-looking.

The paramedics glanced at their surreal surroundings for a few seconds and then at one another. The fear and uncertainty they were experiencing was reflected in their wide eyes.

DeSoto drew his shoulders back this time, and turned to the ultra modernistic communications device that was mounted on the wall beside the entrance. "This must be the _phone_," he reasoned and then stood there, carefully studying the complicated-looking contraption. "I wonder how it works. I wanna call Joanne."

Gage continued to glance around the open-air compartment, in wide-eyed fascination. "Forget the phone. You'll have plenty of time to call Joanne later on. C'mon! Let's look around and get 'settled in', first."

"I can't _get_ 'settled in'. This is all too **un**settling. Right now, I just wanna talk to Joanne."

John left his partner to go 'exploring'. He found an open 'Guest Book' on a counter and began reading from it—aloud. "Welcome to The Waldorf-all-starry-eyed. This is a five-star hotel. Our guests are from out of this world." He whistled softly. "The Guest Registry reads like a 'Who's Who' at NASA. Commander Alan Shepherd, Major John Glenn, Colonel Neil Armstrong. The Colonel and Mrs. John Doe," he stopped reading and snickered. "Those astronauts obviously have a sense of humor."

His friend was still trying to figure out the phone. "They would have to have a sense of humor, in order to survive being 'locked up' in here—for weeks at a time."

John stepped up to the quarantine cubicle's main control panel and ran his right index finger down a long list of labels. "TV, stereo, lav, lab, lights, libraries, beds—" His mouth stopped moving and his eyebrows arched upwards. He turned and took another long look around the open-air compartment.

There wasn't a TV, stereo, lav, lab, light fixture, library or bed to be seen—anywhere.

The puzzled paramedic turned back to the panel and hesitated only an instant before bravely—or foolishly—pressing the 'beds' button.

There was a loud '_cli-ick_'.

Both of the hotel's guests jerked, startled, as two panels in the compartment's far wall slid open, revealing the undersides of a pair of twin beds. There was another loud '_cli-ick_', closely followed by a '_whi-ir_' and a '_hum_', as the beds glided gently down and then '_cli-ick_'ed into place.

"Far out!" the explorer declared, looking and sounding positively delighted. John strolled over to where the beds had descended and then collapsed—face first and fully coverall'ed—onto one of them. "Wake me when Atlanta calls," he mumbled sleepily and promptly closed his eyes.

"Don't go drifting off just yet," Roy warned. "We still have to talk to Dr. Vandertine. Remember?"

His partner reluctantly rolled over and rested his head on his folded arms.

The compartment's entire ceiling had been painted to resemble the view an astronaut might see out of the observation portal of his orbiting space capsule.

"Far out!" John repeated. The explorer noticed that there was another control panel on the headboard of his bed and sat back up, so he could play with—er, examine it. He flicked the 'overhead lights' off and the 'stereo' on and turned the selector knob to 'Easy Listening'.

The brightly-lit compartment immediately darkened. Soft, yellow light filtered down the sides of the walls and soft, gentle music filled the air, coming from eight different directions at once.

"Far out!" John declared, for the third time in as many minutes. "Dual quadraphonic speakers!" he reverently realized. "This place would make an _incredible_ bachelor pad!" He spotted a cabinet in the wall beside the bed's headboard. The cabinet door had a medical insignia on it. He gave way to his curiosity again and pulled it open. The paramedic saw what the cabinet contained and let out another low whistle.

The space was filled with highly sophisticated cardio-vascular monitoring equipment.

"Wish the Squad carried stuff like that," he realized aloud. The envious explorer closed the cabinet. The fatigued fireman then fell back onto his bed and gazed glumly up at the breathtakingly beautiful painting on the ceiling. "Man! I never dreamt that I'd be _sleeping on a boat_ again—so soon!" John suddenly realized something else and his gloomy countenance instantly brightened. "They don't get waves in L.A. Harbor big enough to rock _this_ boat!" He glanced around at the cubicle's solid walls. "And I don't have to worry about having to sleep with the windows open, either!" The paramedic recalled the seven extremely cold nights he'd recently spent aboard a thirty-foot cabin cruiser on Puget Sound, and shivered. John snapped bolt upright on his bed, as he suddenly remembered something else.

Roy was still fidgeting with their new-fangled phone. He suddenly recalled that same exact 'something' and turned to his partner.

"The _sailor_!" the duo declared—in perfect unison.

"Of course!" Roy quickly continued. "That's gotta be it! That sick sailor, in that bar on the docks in Seattle!"

His friend failed to comment.

Roy gave his uncharacteristically quiet companion a questioning stare. "I wonder what he has that THEY think _we_ might a' gotten?"

"What it is he **had**," his partner regrettably corrected, employing the 'past' tense. "Just before we left Seattle, I asked Swede about that Romanian sailor. He told me that the guy had…died, earlier that morning…" the bad news bearer allowed his disturbing words to trail off.

Roy just stood there for a few seconds, in a state of both shock and disbelief.

Then, for the seemingly umpteenth time, the two quarantined firemen—er, friends swapped a pair of extremely anxious glances.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Three**

Roy and John both jerked, startled, as the funny-looking phone let out a pleasant '_beep_'ing tone.

John flicked the compartment's overhead lights back on.

Roy turned back toward the wall and slowly and cautiously picked up what he hoped was the device's mouthpiece. "Hello?" he tentatively spoke into the 'thing'.

There was no response.

Roy turned to his partner and shrugged.

John sprang up from his comfy bunk and crossed back over to the quarantine cubicle's main control panel. "THEY say: When in doubt, read the directions…" There was a framed poster on the wall beside the panel and the paramedic began reading from it—aloud. "Please activate video surveillance upon arrival." He located the video surveillance button on the control panel and pressed it.

Nothing happened.

So he pressed the audio surveillance button.

Again, nothing happened.

His partner exhaled an impatient sigh.

John gave up on the panel and returned to the directions. "Activate video-phone by pressing the green button." He turned to his buddy. "Green. Try the green one," he suggested.

There was a row of multi-colored buttons at the base of their 'video-phone'. Roy obligingly reached out and pressed the 'green' one.

Both men jerked, startled once again, as a panel in the wall beside the phone slid open, exposing a 36"x36" TV screen. They gazed glumly at the blank monitor, but then brightened as the screen slowly brightened and three very solemn-looking strangers appeared beside Mr. Newlin out on the carrier's deck. Mr. Newlin was holding a hand-written sign saying: 'Turn up the volume'.

Roy turned every knob he could find on the phone until—finally—Newlin's ridiculously LOUD sigh of relief filled the cubicle.

Roy turned the last knob he'd touched back a little.

"HELLO AGAIN, GENTLEMEN," Mr. Newlin greeted, at a decibel level that caused his audience to wince in pain.

Roy quickly turned the volume down _quite_ _a bit_.

All four of the previously grim faces on their television screen now bore smiles.

"Drs. Vandertine…Kedzington…and McComas," Newlin introduced and promptly stepped out of range of the camera.

"Hi, John. You don't look too happy to see me again," Vandertine teased. "We're watching the two of you on a monitor. Just like you're watching us."

Gage's glum expression vanished and he and DeSoto began glancing nervously about the cubicle.

"The cameras have been cleverly concealed. It helps the hotel's guests feel less self-conscious." The 'levity' suddenly drained from Dr. Vandertine's face. "Back to business…First, allow me to apologize for all the 'cloak and dagger' stuff, and any other inconveniences this little 'legal kidnapping' may have caused. But we simply didn't have the time to be tactful and considerate. We couldn't explain the 'situation' any sooner because we didn't want to run the risk of an information leak that could potentially cause a whole lot of 'wild rumors' and promote unnecessary panic." The doctor directed his gaze toward Gage's partner. "Mr. DeSoto, I don't know if John has told you or not, but I am an epidemiologist on staff at the government's center for disease control in Atlanta. It's my job to track down, isolate, and, hopefully, contain—and eradicate—potentially deadly viruses and bacterium **before** they can cause widespread epidemics. I'm sure you recall the A-Cokey Strain of viral influenza that you and John were exposed to, two years ago."

Roy managed a grim nod.

Dr. Vandertine looked equally grim and reluctantly continued. "At approximately 16:23, on the afternoon of December 15th, the two of you responded to a medical emergency with Seattle paramedics, Michael Norquist and John McKeese—"

"—We were dispatched to a little bar, down on King Street, called The Brig," Roy interrupted. "The victim was a young sailor off a Romanian Freighter. He was experiencing high fever, disorientation, muscle spasms and severe respiratory distress. We sort a' figured that had to be…it."

"That young sailor is now dead," Vandertine regrettably announced.

"So we heard," John bitterly acknowledged.

"Along with seven of his shipmates," the doctor grimly added.

Gage and DeSoto exchanged equally grim glances.

"_That_ we hadn't heard," Roy quietly confessed.

"Forty-seven other sailors aboard that freighter have fallen ill," Vandertine further informed them. "Fortunately, a very 'sharp' young doctor, at Seattle's Harborview Medical Center, suspected an 'infectious' organism might be involved. He sent a sample of one of the lesions, that were found in the dead sailor's lungs during autopsy, to our Maximum Containment lab, in Atlanta.

Within a matter of hours, we were able to identify the culprit responsible for the sailor's death. The Freon fingerprinting on the LIRA readouts showed a virus, quite similar to the anthrax strain MEDIA.

What the readouts couldn't tell us, is _how_ the virus is transmitted—whether by physical contact or airborne particulates. _What_ its contagion rating is—severely infectious or just mildly. _What _its incubation period is. And _how long _two Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedics, who have been exposed to it, will remain carriers. You guys are here, because we still don't have the answers to those questions…yet. I'm afraid the two of you will have to remain under 'maximum quarantine' until we do. I'm terribly sorry. But, for the sake of the general public's health, that's the way it's gotta be. And now, Dr. Kedzington, from L.A. County Health, would like to get some questions of his own answered. Dr. Kedzington…" Vandertine waved to one of his colleagues and quickly walked clear of camera range.

Dr. Kedzington held up a pen and a pad of paper. "I'm gonna need the names and addresses of everyone the two of you have had close personal contact with since the time of your exposure. By 'close personal contact', I mean 'holding hands', 'kissing', 'sexual intercourse'…stuff like 'that'."

The two firemen locked gazes with one another and stood there looking, and feeling, extremely uncomfortable.

"I'm gonna let you go first," Roy determined.

"Thanks," John insincerely said. "Lou Chase and Greg Garnett," the paramedic obligingly began, but then stopped as Kedzington's lower jaw suddenly dropped. John's own bottom jaw fell open, as he realized what the good doctor was obviously thinking. "I was Chase's _partner_, on Wednesday, and Garnett's _partner_ on Thursday," the fireman promptly explained.

Kedzington's eyebrows arched clear up into the middle of his forehead.

"Their _paramedic_ partners," John annoyedly added. "We're all _paramedics. _I _worked _with them. They drank out of my canteen. In order to treat some of our victims, we had to have close personal contact," the fireman stopped explaining and just stood there, frowning. "You'll have to get their addresses from the fire department."

Kedzington suppressed a smile and recorded the two paramedics' names upon his notepad. "Is that everyone?"

"No. I gave four victims 'mouth-to-mouth' resuscitation. A coronary, Mrs. Arthur—no, Archer. Roy, what was the name of that kid that filled himself with the Christmas 'spirit' and then wrapped his Vette around that concrete overpass on the Ramona Freeway?" he bitterly inquired. "Was it, Wayne Simms?"

"Duane Simpson…I think."

"There's a seventeen-year-old boy in ICU. A drug over-dose. I don't remember his name. There is also a little three-year-old girl, in Room 411, in the Pediatrics' Ward. Pammie. Pamela Frazier, or Brazier, or something like that. You should be able to get the victims' names and addresses from the hospital."

Kedzington copied the information down and then glanced back up. "Is that it?"

John suddenly recalled his last 'date'…and their 'kiss'. "No. There's one more. Toni Gilmore," he quietly replied and avoided his friend's surprise-filled eyes.

"Tony _who_?" the doctor wondered.

"Gilmore," Gage repeated a little louder and gave his partner a quick glance.

Roy was standing there, struggling desperately to _not_ smile. Roy had good reason to smile. His bachelor buddy had been trying to get Nurse Gilmore to go out with him since early October. His partner was nothing, if not persistent.

Kedzington quickly copied down the name. "And did you give _him_ 'mouth-to-mouth', too?"

The smile escaped from Roy's lips and he gave his now blushing buddy a questioning glance.

John ignored him and glared annoyedly up at their TV screen. "Not T-o-n-Y. It's T-o-n-I. Toni is a _girl._" The flustered fireman suddenly looked even more self-conscious. "And we-e…sort a' gave…_each other_…'mouth-to-mouth'."

Kedzington's eyes sparkled with amusement. "I see-ee. Is _that_ it?"

John's eyes narrowed. "Yes. That's _it_."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm _sure_. It was our _first_ date, for cryin' out loud!"

The doctor had everything he could do to keep from chuckling. "I meant, are you sure that there are no more _names_ that you can provide me with."

"Oh. Yeah. I'm sure about _that_, too."

Kedzington regained his composure and directed a questioning gaze at DeSoto.

"My Wife Joanne. My Son Christopher, and my Daughter Suzie. 2711 Amber Drive, Charter Oak," Roy informed the physician.

The doctor glanced up from his notepad.

"That's it," Roy assured him. "I'm a _married_ man," he lightly added, but then immediately grew somber and silent again. 'I'm a _married_ man,' he mentally repeated. Which meant that his exposure to the deadly virus could have far-reaching consequences for his...immediate…_family_. The fireman swallowed hard and then stood there, staring sadly down at the tops of his shoes.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I assure you that this information will be kept in the strictest of confidence." That said, Dr. Kedzington promptly took his leave.

Vandertine stepped back into view. "You wanna draw those blood samples now?" he asked his remaining colleague. "The sooner we ship 'em off, the sooner we'll have the results…"

His colleague nodded.

Dr. Vandertine turned his solemn face back toward the TV screen. "Dr. McComas is NASA's Contagion and Contaminant expert. He's the guy in charge of the quarantine cubicle. I guess that makes him your 'hotel manager'. Dr. McComas is going to have you collect some blood samples from one another. The samples will be shipped off to Atlanta. The doctors in Atlanta will run them through the Chromatograph. If the Chromatograph finds evidence of the virus' presence, they'll attempt to establish some blood cultures. If the cultures come back _negative_, the two of you will be free to go."

Roy glanced up. "And if they come back _positive_?"

"Let's not go _there_," Eric Vandertine suggested. "Right now, let's just try to think POSITIVE, and think 'negative'."

The hotel's guests locked gazes with one another. Judging by the fearful looks upon their faces, the two maximum quarantined firemen were _not_ feeling very 'positive'.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Four**

Dr. McComas cleared his throat.

The quarantine cubicle's seemingly 'entranced' occupants broke their gaze and obligingly returned their attention to the television monitor.

The 'hotel manager' flashed both of his glum 'guests' warm, reassuring smiles. "Roy…John. My parents named me 'John', too. But everybody just calls me 'Jack'."

The duo did their damnedest to return the amiable doctor's smile.

"Your counterparts in Seattle have been hermetically sealed inside Harborview's Isolation Ward," McComas continued. "Because of your medical backgrounds, and your close proximity to this facility, the CDC approached NASA and 'made reservations' for the two of you to be 'contained' _here_. Now, if one of you will press the Lab button, we can get those blood samples drawn."

John stepped back up to the control panel. He shut the music off, returned the beds to their wall 'hide-aways' and then obediently pressed the Lab button.

Another wall panel opened up, revealing a well-equipped mini medical laboratory.

"The CDC has informed me that they will be requiring frequent blood samples. So, the first thing you will need to do, is to start IVs on one another, using the special kits in that top, right-hand cabinet above the counter."

Roy reached up and removed two of the 'special kits' from the designated cabinet.

"The catheters in those kits are the next best thing to PICC lines. They are made of a special silicone polymer and are designed to be used by astronauts as they work and exercise in space. So you don't have to worry about moving your wrists around. Now, which one of you wants to get 'stuck' first?"

The two men exchanged glum glances. Neither of them wanted to get 'stuck'—period.

Finally, the dark-haired fireman exhaled a resigned sigh and began freeing his left arm from the sleeve of his disposable coveralls.

His partner pulled two space-age looking stools up in front of the lab's counter and then tore one of the 'special' IV kits open. Roy was tremendously relieved to find its contents were similar to a 'normal' IV kit.

His patient plopped himself down onto one of the stools.

Roy assumed his seat and went to work.

McComas watched approvingly, as the blond-haired paramedic palpated a viable vein and then swabbed the insertion area with betadine.

His 'patient' winced in pain, as the point of the catheter's 18-gauge introducer needle penetrated the wall of his vein.

Roy pulled back on the hypo's plunger and got a good venous return flow. So he detached the syringe, tugged on a pair of sterile disposable gloves, and began threading the ridiculously thin catheter through the embedded breakaway needle's tiny, hollow tunnel.

"Insert the catheter a full four inches," the doctor advised.

The paramedic did as directed.

"Got it fully inserted?"

Roy nodded.

"Good. Now, withdraw the needle and squeeze it between your right thumb and forefinger, and it will snap in half—lengthwise."

DeSoto did and the needle did.

"Great! Now fill that other syringe there with the heparin solution and flush the catheter."

Once again, the paramedic did precisely as the doctor directed.

"The two of you will need to flush your catheters with the heparin solution after each use…and once every 12 hours, when not in use."

Roy finished flushing the catheter. He set the empty syringe down and then Steristrip'ed the embedded catheter in place. The catheter's hub was also secured to his partner's left wrist, using a transparent sterile occlusive dressing.

"Well done, Roy!" McComas commended. "Now, John, it's your turn to 'stick it' to _him_."

The two firemen were forced to smile.

Their hotel manager seemed like a really nice guy.

* * *

Ten minutes—and twelve vials of drawn blood later…

Roy and John were still seated at the Lab counter.

The last of the samples was placed inside a special 'air-lock', their catheters were flushed out and their catheters' hubs were re-sealed with transparent occlusive dressings.

The two 'drained' firemen sighed in relief and started stepping down from their stools.

"Hold it, guys!" McComas requested. "I'd like to get a physiological chemistry reading on the two of you."

His guests glanced at one another, looking both confused and curious, and obediently plunked their bottoms back down upon their stools.

"Open that top left cabinet."

John did.

"See those metal headbands and wristbands, with the electrode pads on them?"

The two men exchanged nervous glances and reluctantly nodded.

"Place them on your wrists and foreheads with the electrodes positioned over your radial and temporal arteries."

The duo hesitated for a moment or two, but then obligingly began donning the wired metal bands.

"When was the last time the two of you ate or drank anything?"

"I'm gonna let you go first," John told his buddy.

Roy looked thoughtful. "Let's see…I had a sandwich before going to bed—before 'attempting' to go to bed, at around 11:30 last night. And I had my last cup of coffee at around 07:00 this morning."

John suddenly realized that his partner had stopped talking. "I think I ate something sometime yesterday afternoon. But I can't remember what it was. I had my last cup of coffee at the hospital this morning, same time as him."

"Good enough," the doctor determined. "Okay, you can go ahead and plug the ends of those cords into the Hematolographs…Those two black sinister-looking devices located on the wall at the back of the counter there," McComas added with a grin, upon seeing his guests' completely _lost_ looks.

The still-puzzled pair hesitantly did as the doctor directed.

"All right," McComas proclaimed, sounding tremendously pleased. "Now, all the two of you have to do, is to just _sit there and relax_…for the next fifteen minutes…or so."

Oh, how Roy wished he _could_ 'relax'. The 'wired', overly tired paramedic slowly turned his metal-banded head and traded pained expressions with his equally unhappy partner.

* * *

Eighteen unbelievably boring minutes later…

"Okay," McComas announced. "We've got it. You can remove the headbands and the bracelets. Just leave everything out on the counter. We're gonna be running PC readings on you guys every 6 to 8 hours."

"Oh. Joy," John grumbled beneath his breath to Roy.

His quiet comment prompted his partner to smile.

The restrictive bands were removed and placed upon the counter.

"Ro-oy…It appears that you are in excellent health. Your vital signs are all normal. Your temperature is normal and all of your cell counts remain well within the _normal_ ranges. Except for a minor zinc deficiency, you are perfectly healthy."

DeSoto appeared to be both relieved and pleased to hear the good doctor's report.

"Jo-ohn…your red cell count is too low and your white cell count is slightly elevated…as is your body temperature." McComas glanced up from the computer readout. "Your blood pressure could be a little higher and your cardiac enzyme and adrenaline levels could be a little lower. You have obviously been under a great deal of stress lately. You shouldn't allow yourself to become rundown like this. Your body's defenses against—" the doctor halted his little lecture and promptly returned to his patient's PC report. "Have you ever had a problem with your spleen?"

"I was hit by a car five years ago," the 'rundown' paramedic solemnly replied. "My spleen was ruptured at the time, and had to be removed."

"That would explain the vitamin C deficiency. If you've lost your spleen, you should be taking a vitamin C supplement on a daily basis. If I prescribe an iron, calcium and vitamin C supplement for you, will you take it?"

"Sure," his exceedingly sullen patient replied. "Thanks. I, uh, got a slight head cold," the slightly feverish fireman confessed. "From sleeping out on Puget Sound in a cabin-cruiser—with the windows _wide open_," he annoyedly added.

McComas gave his slightly sick guest a sympathetic glance and then quickly changed the subject. "If there is anything you would like to read…or eat…or drink, just name it. As Mr. Newlin said, we'll get you whatever it is you want. All I ask, is that you keep a record of what you ingest, so we'll know what changes to expect in your PC readings."

"I'd like to call my wife," Roy announced. "And maybe get some breakfast," he got a glimpse of the cubicle's futuristic-looking wall clock. "Better make that 'lunch'."

"I'll see what I can do," their hotel manager promised and directed a questioning gaze in Gage's direction.

"I'd like a big, juicy hamburger-stand hamburger, a large milk…and my Sign Book," John told him.

McComas' gaze resettled upon Roy. "Would you care for a hamburger, too?"

"Sure."

The doctor smiled. "We'll send out for some then. In the meantime, make yourselves comfortable. Get to know how things work. You may be here for several days and we want the two of you to feel as 'at home', as possible. If you're tired of those coveralls, you'll find some very comfortable clothes in the closet. If you guys need anything before I get back, just ring for 'room service'."

"Thanks, Doc," his grateful guests simultaneously replied.

McComas flashed them both another smile and then stepped out of range of the camera.

The midshipman that had unlocked their front door for them came into view. "Hi," the young sailor greeted the cubicle's occupants with a wave and a warm smile. "_I'm_ 'room service'. If you guys need anything at all, I'll be right here. Well, right there, actually," he corrected and pointed to a chair off-camera.

The two quarantined firemen forced a couple of sad smiles. "Thanks, 'room service'," they gratefully acknowledged, again speaking in perfect unison.

John crossed over to the control panel and deactivated the 'video surveillance'.

"Why'd you do that?" his partner wondered.

John pressed the 'lav' button. "In case THEY employ a surveillance 'person', instead of surveillance guy," he explained, on his way over to the futuristic toilet facilities that appeared from behind another wall panel.

Roy glanced glumly down at his disposable coveralls for a few moments. Then he crossed over to the control panel and pressed the 'closet' button.

"Ou-ouch!" his partner promptly exclaimed.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Five**

Roy heard his partner cry out in pain. The button pusher winced and glanced back over his right shoulder.

Johnny was standing in front of a stainless steel urinal, clutching his left elbow. His friend's fly was still open and there was a grimace upon his face.

Roy's wince turned into a full-scale grimace as well, and he went running up to his hurting pal.

* * *

"What the hell happened?" Roy demanded.

"I dunno. I was in the middle a' takin' a pee, when this panel suddenly slides open. Then 'that' thing," Johnny motioned with his head in the direction of their clothes closet, "pops out and this damn _door_," he paused to hit the offensive portal with his right hip, "flies open—and cracks me in the elbow!"

"Sorry," his still-grimacing partner apologized.

John gazed at his apologizing friend in confusion. "What have you got to be sorry about? It wasn't your fault."

"Yes. It was. **I** pressed the 'closet' button. Here. I'd better have a look at your IV…"

John promptly pulled his injured arm out of his partner's reach. "Relax, Roy! It cracked me in the _back_ of my elbow—not the _crook_ of my elbow. Besides, these are 'special' catheters. Remember? My IV is _just fine_."

"Well, then let me have a look at your _elbow_," Roy stubbornly insisted.

"My elbow is _just fine_, too. So you can go do—whatever it is you were gonna do—and just let me _pee_…in peace. Meaning in 'private'," John annoyedly added, when his guilt-ridden friend failed to leave him alone.

Roy glanced around their cramped, open-air quarters. "If you're looking for 'privacy', you're not gonna find it in _here_," he gloomily predicted, but then obligingly stepped up to their open closet, leaving his partner to complete his task—in peace.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, in NASA's quarantine cubicle…

Both paramedics had traded their disposable coveralls and uniforms for some surprisingly comfortable light cotton T-shirts and jeans.

John brought their beds down again and sprawled out upon one of them.

His pensive partner placed his hands in his pants' pockets and began to pace—back and forth—in front of him.

John watched his pacing pal walk—back and forth—a few times. "Think positive and think NEGATIVE," he reminded his nervous friend. "Chances are, we don't even _have_ the darn virus. You heard Dr. Vandertine. This is just a 'precautionary' measure…mostly."

Roy halted, right in mid-pace, and aimed his worry-filled eyes in his optimistic friend's direction. "And chances are that we **do** have it…and that I might have given it to _Joanne and the kids_!"

John flashed his guilt-ridden friend back a deeply sympathetic smile. No doubt about it. His partner's bags were all packed and he had already purchased his ticket. His buddy was about to embark on one of his infamous 'guilt' trips. We-ell, the least _he_ could do, was to get up and see him off. The paramedic swung his long legs back off the bed, stood stiffly up and crossed over to the cubicle's control panel.

* * *

John ran his finger down the list of 'gym equipment' labels. He found the button he'd been searching for and pressed it.

A panel opened up in the floor at the foot of Roy's bed, and a treadmill appeared.

* * *

John crossed back over to the space-age looking piece of exercise equipment and pulled its hinged control bar up into position. He turned the treadmill on, set its track's incline to 'steep', its electric motor's speed to 'brisk walk', and its timer to 'five miles'. "There. If you _must_ pace, pace on this thing. That way, you can climb a five-mile-high mountain. And, when you get to the top, if you should find that you don't particularly like the view—or, if you still **hate** yourself—you can 'jump off' and 'end it all'!"

Roy couldn't help but smile at his partner's completely ludicrous proposition. He stepped up onto the moving treadmill, caught his balance and began walking—briskly. "If I climbed…a five-mile-high mountain…at this pace," he breathlessly announced, "I wouldn't have to jump…because…I'd be dead…long before…I ever reached…the top!"

His humorous comment caused his already broadly grinning buddy to chuckle.

Their futuristic phone let out its pleasant '_beep_'.

John saw that the treadmill's track was aimed right at Roy's bed. Before heading over to answer the call, he moved the motor's speed to 'run'.

"He-ey!" his partner protested.

Gage flashed his now running friend a wicked grin. Then he crossed quickly over to their phone and pressed the 'green' button.

The monitor's screen brightened and 'room service' appeared, looking very somber. "Mr. Gage, Dr. McComas has asked me to ask you guys to please turn your 'video surveillance' back on."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. I had shut it off so I could use the…facilities." The paramedic promptly re-activated the sealed compartment's video-surveillance cameras.

The young sailor's countenance brightened considerably as the quarantine cubicle's unseen occupants suddenly became clearly visible again. "Also, a relay has been established and Mr. DeSoto's wife is now on the 'blue' line."

"Thanks." John pressed the 'blue' button at the base of their phone and then picked up what he hoped was its receiver. "Hello?…Hi, Joanne…Yeah, he's here…Uhhh, well, he's running up a five-mile-high mountain right now. But I believe I can convince him to come down and talk to you…Yeah, hang on." He set their phone's funny-looking receiver down and stepped back over to where his breathless buddy was running on the treadmill.

* * *

"Come on down!" John yelled. "Your wife wants to talk to you!"

Roy gave his grinning partner an annoyed glare. "Shut this…damn thing…off!" he breathlessly requested.

His friend's already wicked grin suddenly turned even more evil. Then he reached out and gladly did just as Roy had requested.

The treadmill's track stopped moving, while Roy was still running, and he went flying—face first—onto his bed's comfy mattress. He shoved himself up and rolled slowly off the bed, all the while giving his gleefully giggling partner an icy, completely un-amused glare.

Which, of course, caused Johnny to laugh all the harder. "Hey," he somehow managed to get out between giggles, "at least…I didn't crack you…in the elbow…with the closet door."

The prank perpetrator's little reminder caused Roy's frowning mouth to form a smile of its own. He hurried over to the phone.

* * *

"Hi, Honey," Roy greeted Joanne with an unseen grin—and a huge, but silent, sigh of relief. "No…I wasn't…running up a…five-mile-high mountain," he assured his wife, still sounding a bit breathless. "He did?…Yeah. Well. You know Johnny," he gave his partner another irritated glare.

Johnny just stood there, gazing innocently back at him. Then he smiled and went snickering over to his prematurely vacated bed.

* * *

The wryly-grinning paramedic collapsed back onto his comfortable bunk, and let out a long relaxed sigh.

To provide his married partner with a smidgen of privacy, he pulled on a futuristic-looking pair of headphones, plugged them into the jack at the base of his bed's control board and then turned their stereo on.

The completely exhausted, sleep-deprived fireman drifted off with a slight smile still playing upon his pursed lips and with the sound of soft, soothing music playing in his ears.

**TBC**

Author's note:

_Wow! Thanks for all of your kind and thoughtful comments, guys! (((readers)))  
_

_Can yah tell that the high-moisture corn hasn't come yet? :)_

_Bad weather prevented the combine from getting into the fields._

_Our growing season is too short to grow high-moisture corn, _

_so we hafta buy it from a farmer down in Garden Peninsula,_

_on the balmly shores of Lake Michigan. lol_

_The first semi is 'supposed' to arrive tomorrow morning._

_Until it gets here, my muse and I shall just keep typing away on this E! fic. :D_

_Here's hoping the humor came across in this chapter. *fingers crossed*_

_Take care! *wave wave*_

_And, thanks again! (((((((((((((feedback posters)))))))))))))))))  
_

_:)Ross7  
_


	6. Chapter 6

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Six**

Roy was over a mile-and-a-half in to a three-mile walk, when their futuristic phone let out its pleasant '_beep_'. He turned the treadmill off and hurried over to answer it—er, turn it on.

* * *

The enormous color monitor came to life and Dr. Jack McComas appeared. "Hi, Roy. I placed your lunch in the air-lock. You won't be able to get it out until the red light goes off, though."

"Thanks," Roy told him. "I'll let Johnny know it's here."

* * *

Roy stepped up beside his sleeping friend's bunk. His partner looked so peaceful lying there, he hated like hell to have to disturb him. He heaved a resigned sigh and then gave Johnny's left shoulder a gentle shake.

Johnny snapped awake and gazed dazedly up at him.

"Our lunch is here."

His partner blinked the sleep from his half-open eyes and pulled his headphones off. "Hu-uh?"

"Dr. McComas is here. And so is our lunch."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks."

Roy smiled, as his buddy lost his battle to keep his heavy eyelids raised. "I'm pretty starved. I could prob'ly put away _two_ big…juicy…hamburger-stand hamburgers…"

His partner's eyes immediately snapped back open.

Roy's smile transformed into a grin, as his groggy—and perpetually famished—friend rolled out of bed and followed him over to the air-lock.

* * *

"Sorry it took so long to get back," McComas apologized. "But I had a heck of a time finding a Sign Book."

Gage gave the monitor a groggy glance. "Why didn't you just send for mine?"

"Your apartment is under quarantine."

"My Sign Book is at our fire station."

"Your fire station is under quarantine, too. But don't worry. The lady at the book store assured me that _this_ is THE Sign Book."

The two paramedics glanced at one another, looking stunned.

"Station 51 is under quarantine?" John incredulously repeated.

McComas nodded. "So are your fellow firemen, and your firetrucks. The red light just went off. You can slide the air-lock open now."

The two firemen stared disbelievingly up at the monitor for a few moments.

Then Roy reached out and slid the air-lock's glass door open. He removed two white paper sacks, four pint-sized cartons of ice-cold milk, a new Sign Book—identical to the one his partner had back at their quarantined fire station, a prescription bottle and a bag of sunflower seeds?

McComas caught DeSoto's puzzled expression. "Those are for you, Roy. Seeds are a good natural source of zinc."

"Thanks," Roy numbly responded and passed his partner his prescription.

John stared blearily down at the little bottle in his hand, still looking half-asleep.

"That's the vitamin/mineral supplement I prescribed for you," McComas explained. "I'd like you to take two of those four times a day. You're slightly anemic."

"Thanks, Doc." Gage got his first look at THE book and his groggy face lit up. "Thanks, Doc!" he restated, sounding a bit more exuberant. "This is the _same_ Sign Book I've got."

"You're welcome." McComas directed his gaze at DeSoto. "Roy, did you get to speak with your wife?"

"Yes. Thank you for arranging that for me."

"You're welcome. I'm gonna sign off now, so the two of you can enjoy your meal—in peace."

"See yah, Doc," the cubicle's occupants called out—in perfect unison.

McComas flashed the firemen back a smile and then stepped out of camera range.

John headed over to shut off their phone.

* * *

By the time John got back to the air-lock, his partner had their lunch all laid out on the lab counter. The famished fireman climbed onto his stool and picked up his big…juicy…hamburger-stand hamburger. Instead of biting into it, he held it under his nose, intending to savor its delicious aroma. A frown quickly appeared upon the paramedic's watering mouth.

"What's the matter?" Roy wondered, upon noting his partner's unhappy expression.

"THEY say that most of the enjoyable flavor we get from our food comes from our sense of smell. Well, my nose is all 'stuffed up'. So I can't _smell_ anything. Nothing tastes good, when you have a head cold. Nothing _tastes_—period."

"Yeah. Well, you'd better eat that anyway. I don't need you 'passing out' on me from low blood sugar."

His extremely disappointed partner obligingly took a bite out of his burger. His frown deepened. "Why do THEY always have to be _right_?" he pitifully pondered, right in mid-chew.

Roy gave his frowning friend a sympathetic glance and then _forced_ himself to 'dig in' to his own delicious burger. Growing concern for the health and well being of his family, had caused _him_ to lose _his _appetite, too.

John saw his partner attacking his own lunch less than enthusiastically and shot him a worried glance. "Joanne and the kids _okay_?"

"Yea-eah," Roy replied. "The health department came by the house. Quarantined it. And took blood samples…from everybody."

John turned toward their wall clock. It had only been a little over two hours since he'd left. "Man. Kedzington didn't waste any time. Did he."

"Made Chris and Susie cry."

John winced. "They were prob'ly more frightened than hurt."

"Yea-eah. That's what Jo' said."

John racked his brain for some comforting thing to say, but couldn't come up with anything. So, in lieu of words, he simply reached out and gave his deeply troubled partner's right shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Roy flashed his understanding friend a grateful smile and then reluctantly took another bite out of his burger.

* * *

Following lunch, the two overly tired firemen had collapsed upon their bunks.

The pair then spent the entire afternoon catching up—er, trying to catch up on all their lost sleep.

* * *

Around six or so, that evening…

Roy was sitting up in his comfy bed with his face buried in a spellbinding science fiction novel he'd picked out of their quarantine cubicle's 'well-rounded' literary library.

His partner was sprawled out on his bunk. John had placed his open Sign Book over his face, in an attempt to shield his sensitive eyes from the light Roy was using to read by.

Speaking of his reading partner…

Roy flipped the page.

The crew of a starship had just beamed down to the surface of an unknown, never-before-explored planet, in search of their missing Captain and First Officer, who'd been captured by the sinister Heliun forces whilst trying to prevent said forces from kidnapping the son of one of the Triune governors of Galamos IV.

Their tricorder suddenly registered the presence of an unknown life form in their immediate vicinity.

The landing party's leader ordered phasers set on 'stun' and the starship crew advanced on an eerie, unusual rock formation.

An ominous shadow rose up from among the rocks and—

* * *

"Gah-ahhh!" Gage suddenly screamed in agony.

His partner's completely unexpected cry had caused Roy to clutch at his erratically beating heart. His racing heart skipped another beat or two, as his friend suddenly snapped bolt upright in his bed and then made a frantic grab for his left elbow. Roy flew off his bunk and was at his hurting buddy's side—in seconds. "What's the matter?"

John grimaced in pain and then gasped in exasperation. "Nothin'. I just rolled onto my sore elbow, is all. Man! Talk about 'rude awakenings'."

Roy's heartbeat gradually returned to normal sinus rhythm. He was just about to examine his 'rudely-awakened' buddy's bruised elbow, when their phone emitted its pleasant '_beep_'. He went striding off to answer it, instead.

* * *

Roy pressed the green button.

The monitor came to life and an extremely anxious-looking Dr. McComas came into view. "Everything okay in there?"

"We're fine," Roy assured him. "Johnny just rolled onto his sore elbow."

"What did he do to his elbow?"

"I, uh, had a little run-in with the closet door," Gage glumly replied.

"It was squeaking a little. Turcoff must've oiled it. Sorry 'bout that."

"No big deal," John assured their host. "Unless, of course, I roll onto it in my sleep," he tacked on with a forced smile.

The good doctor's facial expression remained rather somber. "The Chromatograph results came back from Atlanta. I'm sorry to say, the Freon fingerprinting on the LIRA readouts shows evidence of the virus' presence in _both _of your bloodstreams."

His quarantined guests exchanged exceedingly grim glances.

"The CDC's lab people have already begun working on the cultures. The _minimum_ incubation period is seventy-two hours. Hopefully, the lab tech's won't be able to get anything to grow in those damn Petri dishes, and in three days, you'll both be free to go."

"Yeah-eah," Roy quietly concurred. "Did they run Chromatograph tests on the blood samples that were taken from my wife and kids?"

"I don't know. But I'll see if I can find out for you. Okay?"

Roy nodded numbly. "Thanks. I'd appreciate that."

"No problem. I'll get right on it. In the meantime, how 'bout some dinner?"

"_Sounds_ good," John wistfully replied.

"And, while the two of you are eating, we can get some fresh PC readings on you."

"Sounds _boring_," John grumbled, just beneath his breath.

Roy gave their gracious host another glum, numb nod. "Sure."

"What can we get you guys?"

"Doesn't matter to _me_," John told him truthfully. "Since I won't be able to _taste_ it, anyway."

McComas turned back to the dark-haired paramedic's partner. "Roy?"

"Doesn't matter to me, either," Roy realized.

"Wish all of our guests were so easy to please," McComas lightly commented. "We'll be back with your 'mystery food' in just a few minutes."

* * *

Roy numbly reached out and flicked their funny-looking phone off.

His 'stuffed up' friend exhaled an audible gasp of frustration and then flopped back onto his bunk. "Ouch!" he involuntarily cried out, as his injured elbow connected with his comfortable, but firm, mattress.

* * *

DeSoto was at Gage's side before the grimace could even leave his face. "Let me look at your elbow."

"There's nothing to look at. It's just bruised."

"Fine. I'll just have Dr. McComas relay a phone call to Cap—"

"—Fine." His partner promptly proffered his left arm for inspection. "Look. But do not _touch_."

The paramedic gave his suddenly cooperative partner's injury a thorough 'visual' examination.

The tip of his friend's left elbow looked both swollen and tender.

Roy winced. "That door must a' cracked you pretty damn hard. Does anything 'feel' broken?"

"I already ruled out a break. See. I can fully extend my arm." Johnny straightened his injured left arm out.

"Yes. I see. That's very nice. But you could still have an olecranon fracture. I think your elbow should be immobilized."

Gage grimaced—again—and groaned.

"There could be a bone fragment floating around in there somewhere."

"So-o? Let it float. It's not like I'm gonna be doing anything with my left arm for the next three days."

Roy looked pensive. His partner had a valid point. "Okay," he relented. "But at least let me apply a cushion over it. Just in case you end up banging it into something else around here."

"A 'cushion', huh…" Johnny flashed his caregiver a grateful grin. "I guess I can live with that. Thanks, Roy."

"Your welcome. You haven't seen a First-Aid kit around here anywhere…have you?"

"Nope. But, if it's as futuristic-looking as the phone, I probably wouldn't a' recognized it, if I _did_ see it, anyway," Johnny grumbled, once again speaking beneath his breath.

Roy caught his friend's quiet comment—er, complaint and was forced to grin.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Seven**

There was a pleasant '_beep_' inside the quarantine cubicle.

Simultaneously, its air-lock's red light came on.

Roy headed over to answer their phone.

His partner stepped over to the air-lock, to retrieve their 'mystery' dinner.

* * *

The green button was pushed.

Their videophone's dark screen lit up and Dr. McComas appeared. "I contacted the CDC. They said that Samples D2, D3 and D4 _have_ been slated for Chromatograph testing. However, samples drawn from subjects having direct contact with the primary infection source have priority over 'cross-infection' cases. So it may be some time before the lab tech's can get to the samples that were collected from your family."

Roy felt both disappointed and relieved. _Not_ knowing wasn't always a curse, and knowing wasn't always a blessing. "Thanks for looking into that for me, Doc."

The physician flashed the family man a sympathetic smile and nodded.

* * *

The red light finally went out on the air-lock.

John slid the compartment's glass door open and did a beautiful double take.

Inside the air-lock were a couple of plastic IV bags and two packages of IV tubing.

The paramedic removed the compartment's contents and then turned toward the monitor. "_This_ is our 'mystery food'?"

McComas was forced to grin. "Your dinner hasn't been delivered yet. That's some sort of 'drug cocktail' the CDC concocted. Apparently, several of those sick sailors have shown some slight improvement after being dosed with that stuff. They recommend that it be administered as quickly as possible—strictly as a pre-emptive treatment. The instructions are on the labels."

* * *

The IV paraphernalia was placed upon the lab counter.

The quarantine cubicle's infected guests obligingly dropped onto their stools.

Gage carefully rested his padded elbow upon the counter and then proffered his left forearm to his fireman friend.

DeSoto read the instructions on the IV bag's label. The paramedic tore one of the transparent packages open and attached one end of the clear, sterile tubing to the bottom of his patient's IV bag. He opened the clamp at the base of the bag. The IV solution drained down into the attached tube, effectively flushing all the air out. The prepared tubing was then attached to the hub on his patient's catheter and the IV's drip was adjusted accordingly.

John could feel the IV's icy solution entering his arm. Less than an instant later, his vision began to tunnel out on him. "Ro-oy?"

Roy glanced up and locked gazes with his patient.

"I don't feel so goo—" the dark-haired paramedic's mouth stopped moving. In fact, his entire body suddenly went completely limp.

"Johnny?" Roy alarmedly exclaimed as his partner's dark eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward on his stool. He caught his collapsing friend under the arms and immediately crimped off his IV's tubing. "What the hell kind a' drugs did THEY put in their damn cocktail?" he demanded. He got the clear plastic tubing completely clamped off and then carefully lowered his unconscious buddy, and his IV bag, to the floor.

* * *

McComas stood there on the carrier deck and watched helplessly, as the nightmarish scene unfolded up on their monitor's screen. "I have no idea! But your partner appears to be experiencing an 'adverse reaction' to one—or more—of them! Is he breathing?"

* * *

Roy saw his friend's chest slowly falling and rising and nodded. "Is there any medical gear in here? I'd like to get some vitals on him."

The doctor nodded. "You'll find a medical kit, with a BP cuff and stethoscope, in that center cabinet, directly above the counter, there."

Roy sprang to his feet and started reaching for said cabinet.

* * *

The fair-haired paramedic found the medical kit and soon had a set of vitals on his comatose patient. "BP is 115/83. Pulse is 54. Respirations are 8 and shallow. Both lungs are clear. Pupils are pinpoint and slow to react. Request permission to administer 10-liters of O2."

"Go ahead," McComas told him. "There's some oxygen tubing and a nasal canula in that left-hand drawer. Just plug it into that jack on the wall behind the counter and then turn the dial to ten."

* * *

The vertical fireman got the oxygen flowing and was just about to slip the nasal canula into place, when his patient's eyes fluttered open and his pinpoint pupils appeared.

Gage groaned and slowly started reaching for his throbbing forehead. "What…What happened?"

"You went out on me! That's 'what what happened'!" Roy made another attempt to slip his patient's nasal canula into place.

His partner pushed his hands away from his frowning face. "Oh. For cryin' out loud, Roy. I don't need a 'nasal canula'. I just _fainted_."

"You did not just 'faint'. You were _knocked out_—**cold**!"

"Yeah? Well. I ain't knocked out _no-ow_. So let me up." John suddenly realized something and drew a deep breath in—through his nostrils. His frown quickly turned upside-down. "Whatever that stuff was, it seems to have cleared out my sinuses..."

Roy just knelt there, giving his now-grinning patient a strange stare.

* * *

A restaurant delivery guy was escorted across the aircraft carrier's deck.

The visitor, and his sailor escort, approached the quarantine cubicle. "Somebody order two lobster dinners?" the guy inquired, as the pair came within camera range.

"Lobster?" John exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and delight. The famished fireman shoved his partner's hands from his shoulders and started scrambling to his feet. "C'mon, Roy! Let's eat—before my sinuses get all 'stuffed up' again, and I can't _taste_ anything."

Roy gazed glumly down at the floor, where his patient had been lying just moments before. The paramedic then turned and glanced helplessly—and hopelessly—up at their videophone's monitor.

* * *

McComas couldn't help but grin. But then something suddenly occurred to the doctor and his smile did a disappearing act. "Gawd! I hope he's not allergic to seafood…"

**TBC**

Author's note:

_Again, I apologize for posting such a short part. Just thought I'd squeeze a few scenes in between loads of corn. :)  
_

_Speaking of loads…_

_We've had five semis come so far, or about 250,000lbs. of high-moisture corn. *faint*_

_The corn gets unloaded into an auger that dumps it into our roller mill. It drops through the roller mill, getting crushed up as it does so. (Crushing it makes it easier for the cows to digest.) Then it gets augured into a blower that whacks and blows it fifty feet up in the air and into the top of our big, blue, airtight, glass-lined steel Harvestore silo._

_My job is to make sure that the unloading goes 'smoothly', and to shut all the machinery down the instant something messes up. It really keeps you on your toes. lol_

_ Each truck takes between two to three hours to unload. The weather has been extremely cooperative—for a refreshing change. lol In fact, yesterday and today were downright hot._

_Oh well, gotta get this posted. Another semi will be coming any minute now._

_Once more, you guys are **amazing**!_

_Thanks sooooooo much for taking the time to read and comment on this E! fic'! _

_I promise, Chapter Eight will be MUCH longer. lol_

_Take care!_

_:)Ross7_


	8. Chapter 8

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Eight**

John caught the frowning physician's comment. "Not to worry, Doc. The paramedic I stayed with in Seattle had his own boat and his own fishing lines and lobster traps. We had salmon every night for dinner and lobster every morning for breakfast. After about the third day, I got kind a' sick of the salmon. But I never got tired of the lob—"

"—Excuse me," 'room service' suddenly interrupted. "Dr. McComas, you have an urgent phone call—from Atlanta."

"Thanks." McComas motioned to the firemen's meals. "See that our guests get their dinner, Greyson."

"Yes, Sir!" the sailor snappily acknowledged. Greyson grabbed the white boxes from the restaurant delivery guy and began heading for the air-lock.

NASA's contagion and contaminant expert stepped off camera and into the quarantine cubicle's control booth to take his urgent phone call.

* * *

Dr. McComas reappeared in front of the camera, less than a minute later. "Gentlemen!"

Gage and DeSoto directed their attention toward their videophone's monitor.

"I have just been informed that the order for your drug cocktails was 'phoned in' to a pharmacy, right here in L.A.. An alert pharmacist at this local store realized that there had been a major 'mix up' in the formulation of your medication. The pharmacist just contacted the CDC, and the CDC just contacted me. Apparently, one of the pharmacist's colleagues accidentally substituted Tetririzinol with Teterizole. Atlanta now says that your 'drug cocktails' should be 'immediately disposed of', as they contain a _lethal_ dose of Teterizole."

John glanced glumly down at the innocent-looking solution in his IV bag. "_Lethal_, huh? That's too bad. This stuff would a' made an _incredible_ nasal decongestant."

"A _deadly_ nasal decongestant," Roy quickly corrected and shuddered to think how close he'd just come to _killing_ his partner. The paramedic promptly detached the _deadly_ drug cocktail's tubing from his patient's catheter, and then flushed its hub with the Heparin solution.

"Yeah. Well. At least the person would be able to draw their 'last breath' through their _nose_," Johnny stubbornly—and insincerely—persisted, and finally succeeded in coaxing an 'eye roll' and a slight smile from his uptight associate.

"As soon as he saw you starting to 'pass out', Roy crimped off your IV tube," McComas informed the dark-haired paramedic. "Probably _saved your life_."

Gage flashed his fireman friend a grateful grin and then turned to face the monitor. "He does that on a _regular basis_."

Once again, NASA's contagion and contaminant expert couldn't help but grin. McComas then directed his attention to the naval officer, who suddenly appeared at his side. "Guys, this is Commander Paul Herrington. Commander Herrington is the senior physician aboard the carrier."

The cubicle's occupants waved to the Commander.

The officer waved back. "I just got off the phone with the doctors in Atlanta. To avoid kidney and liver damage, the CDC recommends that the drug be diluted with IV fluids—NS—100 drops per minute, for the next 12 to 24 hours, dependent upon what blood testing reveals."

John was just about to protest Atlanta's proposed treatment plan, when the red light went out on the air-lock. The poisoned paramedic opened its sliding glass door. The famished fireman smiled, as his nostrils—and the entire compartment—suddenly filled with their 'mystery food's' enticing aroma. He picked the wonderful-smelling white boxes up and placed them down on the lab counter. "I doubt that any treatment will be necessary, Doctor—er, Commander. Yah see, my partner, here, crimped the tube off—right away."

The Commander glanced down and began reading aloud from the pharmaceutical book in his hands. "Drug: Teterizole. Indications of overdose: Loss of consciousness—"

"—Check," Roy solemnly interrupted.

"Pinpoint pupils…"

"Check."

"Elevated blood pressure…"

"Check."

"Decreased pulse and respiration rates…"

"Check."

"Uhhh, guys?" the patient interrupted, this time. "Other than a slight headache, I'm _perfectly fine_. Really!"

"Describe your headache for me," the Commander commanded.

The poisoned fireman finished laying their lobster dinners out on the lab counter. "I dunno. It just sort a' feels like I was wearing my helmet too tight, or somethin'."

The doctor's eyes dropped back down to his drug book. "Constricting headache."

"Check," Roy regrettably repeated.

John gave his partner an annoyed glare. "Will you _stop_ saying that!" he ordered more than asked.

Roy turned to the monitor and locked gazes with the ship's senior physician. "Irritability?"

The Commander glanced down at his open book. "Check." The doctor stopped reading and turned to his colleague. "We should probably get that IV fluid flush going right away."

Gage gasped—in surrender. "Fine! Do what yah gotta do. I just wanna enjoy my _lobster_ dinner—while I _still can_." He plopped down onto his stool and then turned to his partner. "Could you pass the tartar sauce…_please_?" he added, upon noting his buddy's blank stare.

DeSoto directed his dazed gaze toward the monitor and then exhaled an audible sigh of resignation—er, make that _exasperation_ himself.

* * *

_Very early_ the following morning…

John Gage drew a deep breath in—through his nostrils. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee caused his half-asleep brain cells to fully awaken.

Or not.

The fireman opened his eyes and gazed blearily up at a rather puzzling view.

A beautiful blue sphere was suspended directly overhead.

The fireman recognized the round object's partially cloud-covered continents and suddenly felt even more confused.

For some bizarre reason, the _earth_ seemed to be in orbit above his bed.

"What the—?" he managed to mutter beneath his breath, before _it_ all came back to him. 'Oh. Right. The painted ceiling. The quarantine cubicle. The deadly virus. The drug poisoning—' He glanced back over his left shoulder.

There was no IV bag hanging from his bed's headboard.

He lifted his no longer aching head from his pillow and looked down at his left arm.

There was no IV tubing attached to the hub of his catheter, either.

John allowed his heavy head to drop back onto his pillow.

His last blood test had apparently come back 'clean'.

The no-longer-poisoned paramedic smiled up at his home planet.

* * *

Roy was seated on his stool in front of the lab counter, perusing the morning paper and sipping at his piping hot coffee. He glanced up from the article he was reading, saw that his friend was finally awake, and called out a cheery, "Good morning!"

"Morning," John mumbled back and reluctantly rolled out of bed.

"Sleep well?"

"No." Between having to empty his bladder every two hours, and having to get his blood drawn every four hours, John had hardly 'slept', at all. And, thanks to him, neither had his cheery chum. He flashed his blood-drawing buddy a grateful smile. "But thanks for asking."

Roy returned his smile. "I left the shower out for you. You should probably use it before you sit down."

"Coffee smells delicious. I think I'd rather drink it while it's hot."

Roy's eyes sparkled with amusement and he promptly buried them behind his paper. "Don't worry about your coffee. You've got plenty of time to shower before it gets cold."

* * *

John scrutinized his suspiciously behaving buddy for a few seconds, but then obligingly stripped and stepped into their ultra-modernistic-looking shower's open stall.

There was a plastic placard fastened to one of the ridiculously tiny stall's walls. It read: **Place both feet upon the footprints and close your eyes**.

John's eyes widened and he decided to place both feet outside of the stall, instead. He started to step back, but the stall door slid shut behind him, and he couldn't get it to open back up. So he very reluctantly covered the footprints with his bare feet. He heard a loud '_cli-ick_' and was just about to close his eyes, when a powerful jet of water hit him in the face.

The spray ran down the entire length of both sides of his body—and then stopped.

He snorted the water from his nose, shook it from his hair, and was just about to wring it from his eyes—when he was hit by a powerful blast of soap bubbles.

The bather snorted the foamy bubbles from his nose, blew them from his lips, and was about to swipe them from his stinging eyes—when he got sprayed in the face by another strong stream of steaming hot water. 'The _rinse_ cycle,' the frowning fireman figured, as the spray flushed the soapy foam from his body and sent it swirling down the drain.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, so he cracked his still-stinging eyes open—and got hit, full force in the face, with another powerful blast—of hot air. The hot air blow dried his hair and then blew down the rest of his body. The strong gust of heated wind reached the fireman's bare feet, blew them both dry—and then stopped.

There was a final '_cli-ick_' and the stall door slid open.

John's still-smarting eyes slowly opened and narrowed into annoyed slits.

* * *

Roy looked up from his newspaper. "So. What did you think of your 'shower'?" he innocently inquired.

His partner stomped out of the stall and over to their open closet. "That wasn't a 'shower'!" he crankily corrected. "That was a 'human car wash'!" He grabbed a fresh change of clothes from the closet and stepped up beside his bunk. The frowning fireman donned a pair of blue cotton boxers and an ash-grey T-shirt. He slipped some socks on his blow-dried feet and tugged a fresh pair of jeans on. Before crossing over to the counter, he went stomping up to the cubicle's control panel and pressed two buttons, particularly hard.

* * *

Roy saw his peeved partner smile in satisfaction, as the 'killer closet' and the 'shower from hell' simultaneously retracted into their cubbyholes and then disappeared behind their respective wall panels.

"This place is just _full_ of 'rude awakenings'!" John further commented—er, complained, as he finally came stepping up to the breakfast-laden lab counter. He picked up his Styrofoam cup, removed its plastic lid and held its still-steaming contents under his still-**un**congested nose. "Ahhh," he sighed, upon savoring the coffee's rich, delectable aroma. The sniffer took a cautious sip. His satisfied smile reappeared and broadened. "And 'pleasant awakenings'."

Roy returned his no-longer-peeved partner's smile and then directed his attention back to his newspaper.

Their videophone '_beep_' ed.

Since he was still standing, John crossed back over to the thing and hit the green button.

Their hotel manager's smiling face appeared. "Good morning! I see the two of you still haven't read over _all_ of the 'instructions'. Your videophone can be activated from practically anywhere in the cubicle."

"It _can_?" the two of them incredulously—and simultaneously—came back.

The doctor grinned and nodded.

Both firemen promptly put 'Read _all_ of the instructions' at the top of their 'to do' lists.

"There's something in the air-lock for you, John."

John crossed over to the air-lock and slid its glass door open. He removed several black, plastic-encased rectangular objects, and then stood there, staring down at them in confusion.

"Those are video-cassette cartridges," McComas explained. "I visited UCLA's Language Center this morning. Go ahead. Turn your TV on."

John exchanged a puzzled glance with his partner. "I thought our TV _was_ on…"

"So did I," Roy confessed.

John stepped back up to the control panel and pressed the TV button.

A panel slid open in the wall directly across from their beds and a 4'x4' television screen appeared. The TV's color screen lit up.

"Stick one of the video-cassette cartridges in that slot at the base of the TV and then press 'Play'."

John did as directed.

An attractive young lady appeared and began to speak to him—using American Sign Language.

John stared at the scene playing upon their television's enormous screen in complete and utter disbelief. "Far out!" he declared and flashed their hotel manager a grateful grin.

His benefactor grinned back. "Let me know if you like them, and I'll bring you some more."

"Thanks, Doc!" the sign language student gazed dreamily up at his gorgeous, larger-than-life teacher. "I'm sure I'm going to _love_…them."

Dr. McComas swapped 'eye rolls' and smiles with the 'smitten' student's partner, and then stepped quickly out of camera range.

Roy glanced around and finally spotted a green button on the wall behind the lab counter. The fireman fearlessly reached out and pressed it.

Their videophone's monitor went blank.

"Far out," Roy quietly declared, and calmly returned to his reading.

**TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Nine**

The quarantined firemen finished munching on the last bits of their breakfast.

John opened his prescription bottle and dumped two of the tiny capsules it contained out onto the lab counter. He recapped the bottle, but didn't pop the pills into his mouth until he'd pinched both nostrils shut. "THEY say that most of the awful taste we get from our medicine comes from our sense of smell," he explained in a nasally sounding voice, upon noting his partner's strange stare. He washed the awful tasting tablets down with the last of his milk, and then smiled. "Darned if THEY aren't right—again!"

Their videophone '_beep_'ed.

Roy gave his buddy one last strange stare before reaching across the counter to press the green button.

Dr. McComas appeared up on their phone's monitor. "If you guys are through eating, we'd like to get a new set of PC readings on you."

The two men shoved the debris from their meal aside and obediently began attaching the Hematolograph's metal bracelets to their bodies.

* * *

Fifteen boring minutes into their latest physiological chemistry 'reading'…

Roy was gazing glumly down at the countertop, looking lost in thought.

John caught his companion's trance-like stare and realized something must be weighing heavily on his mind. "Wanna talk about it?" he quietly inquired.

"I don't even wanna 'think' about it," his bummed buddy replied, without even bothering to look up.

Several silent seconds passed.

Then Roy exhaled an exasperated gasp. "_We_ treat the 'sick and injured', so _we_ occasionally get sick, or injured. It's just an 'occupational hazard'." He glanced up and locked solemn gazes with his silent partner. "Right?"

John didn't quite know what to say. So he simply nodded.

Roy's sad, solemn stare returned to the countertop. "_Collateral damage_," he quietly continued. "That's what we called it…over there."

John realized his friend was referring to his 'medic' days in Vietnam, a time in his life Roy never—_ever_—talked about…unless something was deeply troubling him.

The ex-Vietnam medic exhaled another audible sigh of extreme exasperation. "It's one thing, to put _our_ lives at risk. Hell, _we_ do it—willingly—every damn shift!"

Several more moments of somber silence followed.

Roy locked gazes with his partner, again. "I guess I just never realized, until now, that by putting _our_ lives on the line, we are also—**un**willingly—endangering the lives of everyone around us."

"I know what yah mean," John gloomily agreed. "_My_ brain can't seem to wrap itself around the fact that **I** might a' given some beautiful young woman the…'kiss of death'." He gave his really bummed buddy's right shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "All the more reasons for us to think POSITIVE, and think 'negative'."

"All the more reasons for us to 'pray' that those cultures come back 'negative'," Roy promptly reworded.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," McComas suddenly interrupted. "We've got the readings. You may remove the bands."

The gentlemen eagerly began removing the wired metal rings from their wrists and foreheads.

"The only significant change is for the better," the doctor reported and glanced up at Gage. "Your body temperature is now perfectly normal."

The no-longer-feverish fireman flashed his glum friend a slight smile. "Must be where the phrase 'kill or cure' comes from."

"Which reminds me," McComas reluctantly continued. "There's something in the air-lock for you."

John stepped down from his stool and slid the air-lock's glass door open. "Speaking of 'kill or cure'…" He picked the compartment's contents up and then retook his seat at the counter. "Care for an 'after breakfast cocktail'?" he sarcastically inquired.

Roy stared distastefully down at the labeled IV bags and the clear plastic packages of tubing.

"Atlanta figured that you guys would probably be leery of that local pharmacy," McComas explained. "So those two batches were shipped 'overnight air', directly from the CDC."

Unfortunately, that fact failed to make the firemen any _less_ leery.

"Let's just get it over with," John resignedly suggested. Once again, the dark-haired paramedic placed his padded left elbow on the counter and, once again, he bravely proffered his catheterized forearm.

But his blond-haired buddy didn't budge. "If we're gonna try this _again_, let's start with you _already_ lying down," his partner counter-proposed.

"Works for me." Gage snatched up one of the CDC's drug cocktails and a package of tubing. Then he stepped down from his stool and started striding off across the cubicle.

DeSoto stepped down from his stool and reluctantly followed his fireman friend over to his bunk.

* * *

Two uneventful hours—and two successfully administered 'drug cocktails' later…

The quarantine cubicle's occupants were busy familiarizing themselves with the 'controls'—_all_ of the controls.

Roy finished with the 'controls' and resumed his exploration of their literary library.

Its shelves contained everything from Superman comics to the latest issue of Playboy.

The paramedic paged through one of the Playboy periodicals. A bare-breasted 'Bunny' appeared and he quickly flipped the magazine shut. "I guess this is a 'well-rounded' library," he muttered beneath his breath. He noticed the titles on several pamphlets and couldn't help but grin. "'The Basic Survival Course'. 'How To Survive The Basic Survival Course'. 'Surviving The How To Survive The Basic Survival Course'." DeSoto stopped reading and glanced up at his still exploring pal. "You're right. Those astronauts definitely have a sense of humor."

"They would have to have a sense of humor," Gage grumbled, "in order to 'survive' living in this elaborate…_guinea pig cage_—for a _whole month_!"

Roy gazed at his peeved partner in confusion. "Whatever happened to 'This would make an _incredible_ bachelor pad'?"

"That was my _initial_ reaction," his pacing pal explained. "I've had an entire day to survey the situation_,_ and I am now able to form a more _accurate_ opinion." He gazed glumly around at the cramped cubicle's windowless walls—and locked door. "We're _prisoners_!"

John Gage was a man of 'action'. So it was not surprising that **in**activity did not 'sit well' with him.

Hell, Johnny _hated_ it.

Roy flashed his 'caged' companion a sympathetic smile. "Freedom is just a state of mind."

"No, Roy. Freedom is you and me on the other side of that **locked** door."

"Okay. Why do you want to get out of here? What is it you want to do 'out there', that you can't do 'in here'?"

"It's not so much me wanting to get out. It's more me knowing that I could—**if** I wanted to."

"Like I said," Roy triumphantly stated, "freedom is just a state of mind." His blue eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief and he started heading for the control panel. "In the meantime," he reached the panel and pressed a button.

The floor panel slid open and their treadmill reappeared.

* * *

Roy turned the thing on 'brisk walk' and set its incline to 'steep'. "If it's so important for you to feel like you could get out of here—anytime you want to, I happen to know—for a fact—that freedom lies…just beyond this mountain!" he dramatically declared, and motioned to the rapidly-moving mechanical device.

John just stood there, staring at his buddy in disbelief. Then he broke into a broad grin and began to giggle. "If we have to stay in here longer than three days," he remarked, between snickers, "THEY will probably have to take us straight from here to a padded cell."

Roy's own grin vanished and he suddenly looked somewhat indignant. "What do you mean 'us'?" he lightly inquired. "It's _your_ imaginary mountain. I was just 'borrowing' it."

DeSoto's grin returned, as did Gage's giggles.

**TBC**

Author's note:

_Hi guys! *wave wave*_

_The last kernel of high moisture corn went up into the Harvestore at around 9:30, last Saturday night._

_It took 356,000lbs to fill it. The silo has lungs that have to hang down inside it, so you can't fill it all the way to the top, or the silo wouldn't be able to 'breathe'. lol_

_Anyways, inhaling all that 'crap' from the corn caused me to get a sinus infection. *sniffle sniffle snort* _

_I'm allergic to the masks that filter most of the 'crap' out, so I can't wear them. :( _

_I should've worn my bandana over my mouth, though, like I do when I'm driving tractors down dusty roads, but I didn't. _

_Sinuses are still killin' me. But at least I can write and type again. :) Wish I had some of that Teterizole stuff. lol_

_Guess I shouldn't make light of that. Thousands upon thousands of people are killed every year on account of prescription mix-ups. :(_

_Thanks for all of your kind comments, guys! (((feedback leavers)))_

_And thanks for sticking with the story! *high fives*_

_Looks to be about a 12 part'er. :D_

_Take care! *more waving*_

_:)Ross7_


	10. Chapter 10

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Ten**

The two 'maximum quarantine' ed L.A. County firemen whiled away the morning hours: John with his eyes peeled to his pretty Sign teacher, and Roy either on the phone with his wife and kids, or with his nose buried in one of their library's many 'action packed' adventure novels.

As time ticked slowly on, Roy noticed that his 'imprisoned' partner was becoming more and more restless.

Finally, his 'cooped up' companion turned his teacher off, slammed his Sign book shut, and slipped out of bed.

"I'm gonna go for a walk," Johnny announced.

"Don't go too far, huh," Roy taunted him. "Our lunch should be in the air-lock, any moment now."

The walker set their treadmill's speed to 'leisure stroll' and its incline to 'flat' and then stepped aboard. "If I don't make it back before then, send out 'Search & Rescue'," Johnny teased right back.

* * *

About five minutes, or less than a mile later…

Roy saw the air-lock's red light come on and quickly closed his book. "Food's here!"

His restless partner continued to walk, right up until the little red light went out. "We could really use one of these 'air-lock thingies' at the Station," John wistfully declared. He slid the compartment's glass door open and removed its marvelous-smelling contents. "Wouldn't that be cool?" he queried, as he carried their lunch over to the lab counter. "It'd be like having our very own 'Aladdin's Lamp'." The grinning paramedic placed the steaming hot Styrofoam food containers down on the countertop and his posterior down upon his stool. "We could just order whatever we wanted—whenever we wanted it. And then, when we're done eating, there'd be no mess to clean up. We'd just incinerate the dirty dishes."

Roy plunked himself down beside his broadly grinning buddy and gave the 'air-lock thingy' a thoughtful glance. "It's too small. Joanne and the kids would never fit inside there."

Johnny's broad grin slowly transformed into a sad smile. "How are things going on the home-front?"

Roy peeled the plastic lid off of his Styrofoam bowl. "Joanne doesn't mind being confined to the house. In fact, she claims the Health Department people are spoiling her rotten. They run all her errands for her and even deliver her groceries—right to the door, and never hand her a bill." His own smile did a disappearing act. "Christopher keeps asking if his Daddy is coming home for Christmas." He gave the quarantine cubicle's _locked_ door an exceedingly glum glance. "Like **I** even have a choice in the matter."

Gage gave his glum chum a deeply sympathetic look, and then dug into his lunch. "Mmm. Mmm," he declared, upon sampling his still-steaming chili.

"Good, huh?" his partner pondered.

John nodded. "I believe this stuff may be even better than Blain's Red Dog."

"Nothing could be better than Blain's Red Dog," DeSoto quickly determined, but hesitated to sample his own steaming bowlful of chili. "You sure this is such a good idea?"

"Wha-at?" his partner pondered, around a partially masticated mouthful of 'hot'—er, really hot chili.

Roy glanced back over his shoulder, at their confined quarters. "Eating 'beans' for lunch."

Gage giggled delightedly. "Sure it is! This stuff is incredible! Besides, we can just turn the 'audio surveillance' off, slap some headphones on—and then 'toot' the entire afternoon away. And nobody will be any the wiser."

His 'full a' beans' buddy's light-hearted reply caused Roy to chuckle himself. He finally lifted his fully loaded plastic soupspoon to his lips and took a few cautious sips. "Say…this stuff _is_ good. Isn't it."

John flashed his friend a smug smile. "Better than Blain's Red Dog?"

The chili connoisseur smacked his burning lips a couple a' times and took a careful poll of his 'lit up' taste buds. "Not bad. Not bad, at all. Certainly better than Chet's. But Blain's Red Dog is still _the_ best."

John blew a breath out of his flaming mouth. Then he opened and began gulping down the ice-cold contents of one of the four milk cartons setting on the countertop. "Man! Talk about nasal decongestants!" he declared with a grin. "This stuff'll clear out your sinuses in a hurry! I bet I could a' tasted this stuff, even when I still had my head cold."

Roy returned his friend's grin and then stared thoughtfully down at his chili. "Hopefully, it's not as 'deadly' as that first drug cocktail…"

"I'll drink to that!" his grinning chum agreed and took another long, refreshing chug of his ice-cold milk.

* * *

Following their flaming lunch, and a dozen more vials of drawn blood…

The firemen's third slumber-less night in a row finally caught up with them. The pair ended up spending their second afternoon in NASA's quarantine cubicle _sleeping_, instead of 'toot' ing.

* * *

Roy was the first one to awaken and he immediately became immersed in a Western paperback.

Johnny woke up, about four chapters later. He blinked the remaining sleep from his bleary eyes and then rolled stiffly out of his bunk.

Roy glanced up from his open book. "Where yah goin'?"

"I wanna know how our counterparts in Seattle are doing," his partner replied, in mid-stride.

"There's a green button on your headboard," Roy reminded him, with a smirk.

"So I read." His buddy reached their videophone and glanced back over his shoulder. "Force of habit," he explained, sounding a wee bit embarrassed. He pressed the green button.

The monitor came to life and Naval Midshipman Cary Alan Greyson appeared. "Room Service…"

The quarantined fireman was forced to smile. "Yeah. Look, 'Room Service'…Is there a Doctor in the house?"

The young man's amused expression instantly sobered. "You wanna see Dr. McComas?"

"Yes, please."

"Hang on. I'll get him for you," the sailor promised and departed from view.

John rested his hands upon his hips. "I'd also like to know what the latest word from Atlanta is," he further explained, solely for his buddy's benefit.

Roy nodded, understandingly.

* * *

A few moments later, Dr. McComas appeared. "You wanted to see me, John?"

John directed his undivided attention back toward their videophone's TV screen. "Hi, Doc. Yeah. I was wondering how the two Seattle paramedics are doing, and if any more of those Romanian sailors have died."

"As a matter of fact, I just this minute got off the phone with Dr. Michelson, up at Harborview Medical Center. As you already know, McKeese and Norquist are being held—er, kept under maximum quarantine there, in the Isolation Ward. Both paramedics' vital signs are perfectly normal. They have not presented any symptoms—whatsoever, and they claim that they are feeling 'perfectly fine'. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous. They also inquired about your health, and were tremendously relieved to hear that you and Roy were both feeling 'perfectly fine', too. Except, of course, for being extremely restless and nervous—understandably nervous." The doctor's smile suddenly vanished. "I'm sorry to say that fourteen more sailors aboard that freighter have…succumbed to the virus. The others continue to show some minor improvement after being given a second dose of the CDC's new drug cocktail."

The dark-haired paramedic exchanged solemn glances with his partner. "Any word yet from Atlanta?"

"Dr. Vandertine called while the two of you were sleeping. He said that your blood cultures have been in the incubator for about 24 hours now, and—so far—there is **no** sign of any 'growth' in any of the mediums. He also said that it takes time for the virus to propagate—if it's going to propagate. The samples will need to be incubated another 48 hours, at the very least, before the two of you can be certified 'contagion free'. And he said it could even take a little longer."

"No it couldn't," the blond paramedic quickly countered. "We gotta be out of here by Christmas Eve. Christmas morning, at the very latest."

McComas gave the family man a deeply sympathetic look. "Then I certainly hope that proves to be the case."

John flashed the physician a grateful smile. "Thanks, Doc. That about covers everything."

The doctor returned the young fireman's smile. "I took the liberty of ordering you guys some dinner. It should be arriving shortly. Before the delivery guy gets here, I'd like to get a sixth PC reading on the two of you."

Roy obligingly began heading over to the lab counter, with his Western.

Johnny figured his fireman friend was onto something, so he snatched a magazine from their library's shelves before plunking himself down onto his own stool. He glanced down at his lap and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the periodical that he had randomly picked up was—Playboy. 'Oh. Joy,' he silently mused.

* * *

Another delicious dinner—and two PC readings later, both firemen were sprawled back out on their bunks…

John rolled onto his side and saw that his buddy's nose was still buried in his paperback book. "What time is it?" he groggily inquired.

Roy's reading lamp was the only light source in the cubicle. So he couldn't see their futuristic wall clock.

"You've got a watch," his reading buddy reminded him.

"Yeah," John agreed. "But I don't want to have to bend my bruised elbow…or crawl out of bed," his whispered words trailed off.

Roy was in no mood for interruptions. He glanced up from his open book and gave his unbelievably lazy buddy an irritated glare. Then, curious as to the answer to the time question, himself, he directed his attention to his watch. "It's just after midnight," he announced and waited for his partner to acknowledge him.

But Johnny failed to respond. He'd already drifted back to sleep.

Roy gave his dozing friend a final glare of extreme annoyance and returned to his Western.

The trail boss of a cattle drive was waiting for his Ramrod to give him some disturbing news.

The disturbing news turned out to be that several of the stray Longhorn steers that had joined their herd were down with 'hoof and mouth' disease—anthrax.

The local authorities were insisting that the entire herd be quarantined or destroyed, before they could infect other ranchers' livestock.

It was beginning to look like they would never reach the cattle yards in Sedalia.

Roy suddenly lost all interest in the story. He closed the book and tossed it aside. Then he turned off his reading lamp and blinked up at the cubicle's far from black ceiling in absolute amazement. Several of the larger luminaries were still visible, obviously having been created using 'glow-in-the-dark' paint. He lay there, staring silently up at the moon, and thinking negative…_negative_…NEGATIVE.

**TBC**

Author's note:

_Once again, thanks for all your kind, encouraging comments and continued support! ((((((((feedback posters)))))))))_

_Thanks also for all the 'well wishes'. ((((((readers))))))) They worked. :D My sinuses are feeling a tad bit better. :)_

_Hope you enjoyed Chapter Ten. *fingers crossed*_

_Take care! *wave wave*_

_:)Ross7_


	11. Chapter 11

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Eleven**

Roy lay awake in his bunk, contemplating the series of events that had led up to their becoming 'guests' in NASA's quarantine cubicle.

* * *

It had all began back at Station 51, on the morning of December 7th…

Captain Hank Stanley's A-Shift crew was arriving for work.

* * *

Roy strolled into the locker room and was surprised to find that his partner was not occupying the space in front of his locker. "Good morning!" he called out to his fellow firefighters.

Chet, Mike and Marco returned the paramedic's cheerful greeting, right along with the guy's from C-Shift.

Roy pulled his locker open and began to change—out of his civvies and into his uniform. "Anybody seen Johnny this morning?"

Lopez was in the process of tying his shoes. "I don't think he's here yet." He glanced in Kelly's direction. "Is he?"

Chet nodded. "I saw his Rover parked out back, when I pulled up."

"Huh. I didn't even notice," Marco remarked. He finished snugging up and tying his bootlaces, and then followed his engine crew buddies from the room.

Roy gave the empty space beside him on the bench a concerned glance.

The fireman hastily finished donning his uniform. Then he grabbed his department nametag, his badge and his helmet and went dashing out the door.

* * *

Roy crossed the apparatus bay and poked his head into the rec' room.

Henry spotted him in the doorway and started thumping his tail, rather loudly, upon his leather-covered couch cushion.

Three of his crewmates were seated at the kitchen table, enjoying their morning coffee.

Johnny wasn't one of them.

Roy arched an eyebrow and headed for his Captain's office.

* * *

Hank Stanley was seated at his desk. He glanced up from his paperwork and saw DeSoto standing in his office's open doorway.

Roy's eyes made a quick reconnaissance of the room.

"Lose something?" Hank inquired.

"Someone. I can't find my partner."

"He didn't call in sick. So he should show up for Roll."

"Right," Roy concurred, sounding even more uncertain than he looked.

* * *

Roy turned around and was about to head back over to the rec' room, when he spotted his missing partner.

Johnny was sitting in the Squad, staring blankly off into space.

Roy heaved a silent sigh of relief. Then he stomped around the front of their rescue truck and jerked its passenger door open. "What are you doing in there? I've been looking all over for you."

His friend put an end to his dazed gaze and slowly turned to face him. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"I asked my question first."

"I was just sitting here…thinking. Why were you looking for me?"

Roy suddenly felt a wee bit embarrassed. "I dunno. I guess I was just wondering where you were. I thought we could go over the equip—"

"—I just did," Johnny interrupted. He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and passed it to his partner.

Roy stared down at the long list of needed supplies. "Oh."

"Is that all you wanted me for?"

Roy glanced up from the list. "Yeah. I guess…"

Johnny seemed pleased to hear that. Then he reached out, grabbed the handle and pulled his door shut.

Roy suddenly felt sort a' 'left out'.

* * *

Captain Stanley stepped out of his office. He gave Gage a puzzled glance and then directed his gaze toward his partner. "Tell the guys it's time for Roll. Will yah, pal?"

Roy nodded his compliance and stood there marveling at the fire officer's ability to make direct orders seem like polite suggestions.

Stanley flashed his senior paramedic a grateful smile and then disappeared back inside his office.

Roy reluctantly reached out and reopened the Squad's passenger door.

Gage exhaled an audible gasp of annoyance and slowly turned to face him—again.

"The Cap wants us to fall in for Roll."

Johnny snatched his dress cap from his lap, slid off his seat and quietly closed the truck door. He stepped across the garage and then stood there, just outside Stanley's office.

Roy gave his zombie-like buddy's back a worried glance and then obediently headed over to the rec' room.

* * *

Less than a minute later, Station 51's A-shift crew was lined up in front of the Squad.

Roy pulled his 'completely spaced out' partner's dress cap from his right hand and placed it upon his head for him.

Captain Stanley stepped out of his office, with clipboard in hand, and started calling off Roll. "Stoker."

"Here."

"Lopez."

"Here."

"Kelly."

"Here."

"Gage."

Silence.

Stanley exhaled an impatient sigh. He glanced up from his Duty Roster sheet and gave the 'zoned out' figure standing directly in front of him an annoyed glare. "GA-AGE!" he sternly, and rather loudly, repeated.

The spacey paramedic instantly snapped back to attention. "Yeah, Cap?"

His Captain exhaled another audible sigh—this one of resignation. "Never mind. Where ever it is you are, it obviously _isn't_ 'here'."

The paramedic appeared to be both embarrassed and remorseful.

The rest of the guys glanced at one another, looking most amused.

Stanley gave Gage one last irritated glare, and then returned to the task at hand. "DeSoto."

"Here."

The fire officer checked the last name off his Duty Roster list and flipped to the next sheet on his clipboard. "To be read to all department personnel and then posted: The International Union of Firefighters, Local 214, will hold their quarterly meeting at 7:30 p.m., this coming Friday. Be advised that there will be an election of officials. So all members are urged to attend and cast their ballots." Hank paused to draw in a long, bored breath. "There will be a Firemen's Benefit Fund Dance in the gym at Gilbert High, this Saturday night. The event will run from 8:00 until midnight and will feature…Orange Rind? Those wishing to donate their time and energy should contact Phil Driesen, at Station 43. There will be a special meeting of the Paramedics' Advisory Committee this morning, at 09:00 in—" he skipped down to John and Roy's jurisdiction, "—Conference Room A, at Rampart General Hospital," he paused again, to glance up at his paramedics. "The two of you can take off."

Roy gave their Captain a grateful nod. Then he tossed his dress cap onto the Call Station and climbed up into the Squad.

Stanley saw that DeSoto's partner was, once again, gazing blankly off into space**. "Get with it, Gage!**"

His engine crew cringed.

John jerked, startled. "Yes, Sir!" he promised.

Hank waited.

But Gage just continued to stand there, rather stiffly—at attention.

"We-ell? **Get** **going**!" Stanley re-commanded, sounding every bit as miffed as he now looked.

"Yes, Sir!" the paramedic snappily replied, but then his face slowly filled with confusion. "Where do you want me to go?"

Hank Stanley's shoulders sagged in defeat and he turned to his Engineer. "You tell him, Mike. I'm afraid of what I might be tempted to say."

The engine crew couldn't help but chuckle at their Captain's amusing comment.

Stoker struggled desperately to keep a straight face. "You've got a meeting at Rampart this morning."

John suddenly noticed his partner was no longer standing at his side. "Where's Roy?"

Stanley's shoulders slumped even further and he pointed, wordlessly, to the Squad.

Gage glanced back over his shoulder.

His partner was seated behind the wheel of their rescue truck, patiently waiting for him to climb aboard.

Johnny was about to pile into the Squad himself, when he realized he was wearing his dress cap. He tossed it onto the Call Station beside his partner's and then scrambled into their rescue truck's passenger seat.

The engine crew watched the Squad pull out of the garage and then turned back toward their Captain.

Hank gave his head a few quick shakes and then reluctantly returned to his 'mandatory' reading.

The guys glanced at one another again—and grinned.

* * *

In the front seat of Squad 51, a few blocks from the fire station…

Johnny snatched up their truck's dash-mounted radio's mic' and thumbed its 'SEND' button. "L.A., Squad 51. Show us Code 7 at Rampart General…"

"**10-4, 51…**"

John slid the mic' back onto its clip. Then he leaned back in his seat and turned to gaze blankly out his door's open window.

Roy shot his silent partner a deeply concerned glance.

Over the course of the past couple of shifts, his out-going, talkative companion had become increasingly quiet and reclusive.

At first, Roy had delighted in his buddy's bouts of silence.

Now, he had actually come to dread them. "What's bothering you?" Roy quietly inquired, his voice reflecting the concern in his eyes.

"I wasn't going to bother you with what's bothering me," Gage glumly replied. "I'm always bothering you with what's bothering me." He turned to face his friend. "I thought you could use a break."

"It doesn't bother me," Roy assured him.

Gage gave him a 'get real' glare.

"Okay. Sometimes. Maybe a _little_," DeSoto was finally forced to concede. "You know what bothers me even _more_?"

"What?"

"When you _don't_ grumble and complain and tell me all your troubles."

Johnny just sat there, staring at his buddy in complete and utter disbelief.

Roy nodded. "I never thought I'd _ever_ hear myself say this, but I actually **miss** all of your little 'rantings' and 'ravings'."

His partner appeared to be even more skeptical.

Roy managed another nod. "It's true. It's actually kind a' nice, knowing that somebody thinks highly enough of your opinion, and trusts you enough, to 'confide in you'," he hinted. "And to 'ask you for your advice and assistance' in solving their problems…" he hinted further, and finally succeeded in coaxing a slight smile from his quiet—er, too quiet companion.

"And, all this time, I thought I was doing you a _favor_…"

"Yeah. Well. Now you can do me an even _bigger_ favor, and tell me what's bothering you…"

His buddy's slight smile broadened for an instant, but then vanished—entirely. "I wouldn't call it a 'problem'…exactly."

The pair rode on in silence for several blocks.

Finally, Roy spoke up. "This is where you're supposed to ask me for my advice and assistance in solving the problem you don't 'exactly' have."

His silent partner's smile put in another brief appearance. But then Gage's countenance gradually grew gloomy—again.

They rode on in silence for several more blocks.

Johnny suddenly looked glummer than ever. "I'm in a rut."

Having recently viewed several nature shows on PBS, Roy immediately envisioned his bachelor friend following the scent of pretty, perfumed nurses through the halls of Rampart, like a buck following the scent of 'in estrus' does through the forest. The paramedic had to purse his lips—rather tightly—to prevent himself from grinning, because, at the moment, he couldn't seem to get _that_ 'mental image' out of his head. '**I** am in a 'rut',' the family man silently, and amusedly, mused. _'You_ are in more of a 'groove'.'

"I've been trying—real hard—to figure something out."

"What's the question?"

"How can I do something different…_without_ doing something different?"

They reached Rampart.

Roy shot his puzzling partner a completely perplexed glance, but remained silent. 'What are you talking about?' he wordlessly wondered. 'We're _always_ doing something different. No two calls are _ever_ the same.' The paramedic pulled their squad into a parking spot in the hospital's Visitors' lot and killed its engine. Then he turned in his seat and gave his troubled buddy a deeply sympathetic look. "Heck, I don't even think THEY could come up with an answer to _that_ question."

Johnny flashed his friend—er, his advisor back just the slightest of smiles.

**TBC**


	12. Chapter 12

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Twelve**

Squad 51's on-duty paramedics entered Rampart General Hospital's Emergency Receiving ward and began making their way to Conference Room A.

* * *

Gage and DeSoto met up with some of their off-duty colleagues in the corridor, not far from where their 'special' Paramedics' Advisory Committee's meeting was to take place.

"Hey, Johnny!" Terry Macklin, from 45's called out and grabbed Gage by the arm. "You seen that new nurse over in Pediatrics yet?"

"Can't say as I have," Johnny told him.

Macklin got a sort a' moonstruck look on his face. "She's gorgeous! And _single_."

"That's nice," Johnny remarked and attempted to leave.

Terry tightened his grip on his wrist. "None of us have been able to get a date with her."

"She's also 'smart'," Gage teased and tried to leave—again.

Macklin pulled him to a stop once more. "Five buck's'll get you in on the 'action'…"

"Not interested," Johnny told him and attempted to free his right wrist.

"Ah. C'mon, John. The pot's already up to forty-five bucks."

"Thanks for the offer, Terry. But I am definitely _not_ interested," Johnny repeated, a little more forcefully, and finally succeeded in prying the off-duty paramedic's appendage from his right arm.

* * *

"What do you suppose this 'special' meeting is all about?" John pondered, once he'd caught back up with his partner.

"I'm guessing it's about that 'Advanced Paramedical Research Program'," Roy replied. "The deadline to sign up for it is noon—today."

"I heard that nobody has signed up for it—yet."

"Yeah. Well, how do THEY expect guys to volunteer for something that they know nothing about?"

"Yeah," Gage agreed. "It would have to someone who was either really curious, or really dedicated."

"Or really _dumb_," Roy lightly tacked on.

The two of them traded smiles and then joined their fellow committeemen in the conference room.

* * *

Inside Conference Room A at Rampart General, forty-five minutes later…

"As you know," Dr. Mike Morton addressed the Los Angeles County Fire Department paramedics in attendance, "the deadline for volunteers to sign up for the 'Advanced Paramedical Research Program' is noon—today."

His audience looked like they could care less.

Morton looked tremendously disappointed. "C'mon, people! It seems to me, that out of sixty paramedics, we ought to be able to get _at least_ **two** volunteers…"

"And it seems to me," Mark Lawes cynically shot back, "that THEY ought to be able to _at least_ tell us a **little** about what it is that we'd be volunteering _for_."

His fellow firemen nodded in agreement.

"THEY don't want the program's objectives to become general knowledge—just yet," Morton patiently explained. "If you want to find out more about the program, you're just gonna have to volunteer."

Lawes remained dissatisfied—and cynical. "Doc, how can we possibly find out _more_ about the program, when we haven't been told _anything_ about it? All this 'secrecy' leads me to believe that what we'd be volunteering for must be so _awful_, that THEY are _afraid_ to tell us."

Once again, his fellow firemen nodded in agreement.

"Know what I think?" J.T. suddenly piped up. "I think that this 'program' is some kind a' 'test'. I think that THEY are going to sign up everyone who _doesn't_ volunteer for this, just to teach us a lesson."

His fellow paramedics stared at him, and then at each other, in disbelief.

Gage, who'd been just sitting there, staring blankly off into space since the meeting first started, suddenly straightened up in his seat. His head slowly swung in J.T.'s direction and he locked gazes with him. "You think—you actually think—that THEY would go through _all this_, just to teach a bunch a guys with a lousy attitude a lesson about proper motivation?"

J.T. suddenly looked a little—er, a lot less certain of his theory. "Nahhh. I guess not."

"Well, **I** do!" Johnny announced. That said, he reached across the conference table and latched onto the blank Volunteer sheet. Then he pulled a pen from his front shirt pocket and signed his name beside the number 1.

His fellow paramedics stared at him, and then at each other, looking completely astounded.

Johnny shoved the sign up sheet back across the table and the pen back into his front shirt pocket, and then resumed staring…blankly…off into space.

For the longest time, DeSoto was too dumbstruck to speak.

* * *

"Do you realize what you just did?" Roy angrily demanded, once he'd regained his speech. "THEY always use 'partners', _partner_! **Two** guys! By volunteering _yourself_, you just automatically volunteered _me_! Why did you _do_ that?"

"Because I'm basically a curious, dedicated, _dumb_ guy!" his partner smartly replied. "But, mostly curious."

His buddy's hard, accusatorial gaze softened and he was forced to smile. Roy didn't say another word. He simply snatched up the Volunteer sheet and signed his name, right below his partner's.

Their fellow committeemen exchanged thoughtful glances and then, one by one, they added their signatures to the sign up sheet, as well.

Dr. Mike Morton just stood there at the head of the conference table, smiling delightedly.

* * *

A short time later, in Rampart's Emergency Receiving…

Johnny was standing in front of the counter at the Nurses' Station, waiting for an 'authorized person' to come along, so he could get the drugs and medical supplies they needed to restock their rescue squad.

His partner was currently utilizing the MEN's room.

RN Toni Gilmore came down the corridor and stepped right up beside the waiting paramedic. "Hi."

John jerked, startled by the pretty nurse's sudden appearance—and extremely close proximity. "Uhhh. Hi," he finally managed to get out.

Nurse Gilmore continued to 'close in' on his position, until the two of them were finally facing one another.

The young woman looked up and locked her beautiful brown eyes onto his. "Word around the hospital is, that you are no longer participating in the…'betting pool'. Is that true?"

The fireman was completely flabbergasted. John wasn't sure what he found most surprising—er, disturbing: the fact that the nurses seemed to know about their little 'betting pool', or the speed at which the hospital's 'grapevine' could convey gossip. "Uhhh. Yeah," he confessed, once he'd gotten his ability to speak back. "But how did you—?"

"—In that case," Toni interrupted him, "give me a call sometime…_soon_," she slyly added and slipped something into the right front pocket of his uniform shirt.

Gage was even more flabbergasted. He would've liked to have said something but, before he could get his voice back again, Nurse Gilmore was gone.

Roy showed up right about then and turned their supply list over to Dixie.

Johnny noticed the beautiful blonde behind the counter—for the first time—and his bottom jaw fell open. "How long have _you_ been standing there?"

The RN managed a mischievous smile. "Long enough."

* * *

A little while later, out in the hospital's parking lot…

Gage was crouched down, and DeSoto was standing, in front of their rescue truck's open side compartments, stowing their restocked medical supplies away.

"What did you mean, when you said that you _want do something different…without doing something different_?" Roy suddenly—and quite casually—inquired.

"I dunno," his partner replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I guess I'd just like to be able to…fish a drunk out of swimming pool _without _getting knocked out cold and nearly drowned. Or fight a brushfire _without _falling into an abandoned bomb shelter and nearly breaking my neck. And it would be real nice, if I could respond to a freeway pileup or a refinery fire _without _being exposed to toxic gases. Or if I could maybe get an accident victim up out of a canyon _without _being buried by a rockslide. And it would be just dandy if I could deliver a cardiac patient to the hospital _without _being attacked by some psycho cop at a traffic stop. Or if I could prevent a freeway pileup _without _having to drive a semi off an onramp. Or if I could just climb a stinkin' communication tower _without _'tripping out' on some psychotropic incense shit!" The peeved paramedic finished shouting and slammed the lid shut on their refilled drugbox.

Johnny's rant was music to Roy's ears. However, the sad—and deadly serious—nature of the tune prevented him from smiling. In fact, he frowned outright, as he realized the 'rut' that his frustrated fireman friend had been referring to earlier was the rut of being 'injured on the job'.

They'd both had their share of 'close calls' over the course of the year.

But the past eleven months had been particularly hard on his partner.

DeSoto extended his right hand and assisted his discouraged buddy back up to his feet. "You're **not** thinking of _quitting_…Are you?"

Gage's glistening eyes dropped down to the drugbox. The paramedic clutched its handle a little tighter. "**This** is the something I _don't_ wanna do different."

Roy exhaled a silent sigh of relief. The paramedic gave his partner's left hand a reassuring squeeze, and a firm shake, before finally relinquishing his grip on it.

Johnny glanced up and gave his supportive partner a look of undying gratitude.

* * *

A little over fifteen minutes later…

Roy backed the Squad into its parking spot in Station 51's apparatus bay and killed its engine.

Johnny snatched up their HT. "L.A., Squad 51 is available at quarters…"

"**10-4, Squad 51.**"

The Squad's occupants piled out and began heading for the rec' room.

* * *

"Could the two of you step in here for a minute," their Captain suddenly requested—er, commanded.

The two men immediately changed directions.

* * *

A few seconds later, in Hank Stanley's office…

John stepped up to his Captain's desk and then stood there at attention. "Cap, about this morning…I'm _really_ sorry and I promise I'll try _really_ hard to **not** let it happen again."

Stanley suppressed a smile. "I'm _really_ happy to hear that, John. But that is **not** why I called you guys in here." Hank stared down at his recently hung up phone, looking somewhat amazed. "Headquarters has just informed me that the two of you have been picked for—" he paused to read his notes, "the 'Advanced Paramedical Research Program'."

His paramedics seemed to be equally amazed.

"Why **us**?" DeSoto demanded. "Eight other guys signed up for it, too."

"It seems the way the thing was set up—" Stanley stopped and began reading directly from his notes again, "the first two men to volunteer were going to be picked for the project because, according to a Mr. Edward R. Bowerman, 'They deserve to be rewarded for their willingness, and commended for their eagerness to be of assistance.'" The Captain paused again, and stared up at his paramedic team, looking astonished. "You've barely been gone _two hours_. How did you ever manage to get yourselves into _this_?"

Roy gave his 'eager' buddy an annoyed glare. "It would a' never happened…if my partner, here, wasn't so dedicated, curious and—"

"—Dumb," his partner finished for him.

"Du-umb?" The look on their Captain's face went from one of astonishment to confusion. "You call volunteering to spend two weeks in Seattle, Washington—studying their Paramedic Program, asking questions and taking notes, all at the County's expense—_dumb_? I'd say it's more like 'brilliant'." Hank gazed glumly down at his notepad. "Why don't THEY ever ask _Captains_ to volunteer for anything?" He glanced back up and saw the 'Are you serious?' looks on his paramedics' faces. "It's all right here," he assured them, and gave his notepad a couple of taps with the point of his pencil. "You're due over at headquarters in one hour, for a preliminary briefing. Brice and Kirk are coming in to replace you. As soon as they get here, the two of you can take off—" he paused again, to flash his paramedics a warm smile, "—on your new 'research' assignment."

His two lucky crewmen exchanged looks of complete and utter disbelief.

"A two-week paid vacation," Roy suddenly realized—right out loud, and a smile finally appeared upon his still astonished face.

Johnny beamed his fellow 'researcher' a broad grin. "Far out!"

* * *

"Please, God…_Please_, let this have as happy an ending, as it had a beginning," Roy prayed and continued to aim his deeply troubled gaze up at the quarantine cubicle's ceiling.

* * *

Finally, at around 04:00, the moon's unnatural glow faded completely away, and the overly fatigued fireman drifted dreamlessly off.

**TBC**

Author's Note:

_Well, **I** figured this fic' for a 12-parter, but, as usual, **Da Boys** figured differently. lolol_

_Thanks, everybody, for reading and reviewing! ((((readers))))_

_It is always MOST encouraging to hear back from you guys! *hugs and high-fives*_

_My story stats have been broken for the past few days, so, without feedback, I have no idea_

_if anyone out there is even reading what I've written. lolol_

_Take care! *wave wave*_

_:)Ross7_


	13. Chapter 13

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Thirteen**

Five hours later, over at L.A. County Fire Station 51…

A-Shift's quarantined Captain and engine crew were just rolling out of bed.

Since he and his men were not 'on-duty', Hank Stanley had no qualms whatsoever about ignoring the department's 'wake up' tones.

While his fearless leader and fellow firefighters began making their way toward the sinks and the shower in the washroom, Chet Kelly slipped into a T-shirt and jeans and headed instead for the coffeemaker in the kitchen.

* * *

Kelly had made it about halfway through the garage, when the front door buzzer sounded. "I'll get it!" he hollered back over his sagging right shoulder and reluctantly changed his course.

* * *

Chet pulled the Station's front portal open.

Not surprisingly, no one was there. There was never anybody there.

He picked the two fully loaded sacks of groceries up off of the brick building's concrete porch and carried them inside.

* * *

Kelly placed the heavy brown paper bags in his arms on the kitchen counter and then stood there, gazing disinterestedly down at their contents.

Visions of his two shiftmates lying in an Isolation Ward somewhere—barely able to draw a breath, their minds and bodies ravaged with fever—had completely killed his appetite.

The depressed fireman turned his back on the food and stared sadly down at their kitchen table.

John and Roy's first shift back should not have ended with the two of them being carted off somewhere by a bunch a' guys wearing weird white space suits.

He gazed glumly down at the table's empty wooden chairs.

Just seventy-five hours earlier, all six of them had been occupied, and Roy had been regaling them with the highlights of their vacation in—er, their 'research trip' to Seattle…

* * *

"It was a _working_ vacation," Roy reminded his cynical shiftmates. "And you would not believe how incredibly difficult it is, to stand around and do nothing, when there is so much that needs to be done."

"Yeah," his partner agreed. "Can you picture yourselves being on scene, but just 'observing' a fire or a vehicle accident? It was practically impossible!"

"What about your _free _time?" Mike Stoker continued to taunt. "How difficult was it for the two of you to lie around an indoor pool in some really swank hotel?"

DeSoto's face filled with disbelief. "Really swank hotel? I spent the first night in a _barn_!"

"C'mon," Marco declared with a roll of his eyes. "The place couldn't have been _that_ bad."

Johnny chuckled.

Roy grinned. "It was a _real_ barn. You know, with cows and straw and—" his grin turned into a grimace.

His shiftmates snickered.

Their Captain was most amused. "What? Was there no room left in the Holiday _Inn_?"

The men laughed outright.

"To help cut costs," Roy continued, "and make things a little more convenient, we talked the Seattle paramedics into letting us bunk with them. I stayed with Mike Norquist, otherwise known as 'the Swede'. Swede is trying to build up a dairy farm. We were up—all night—with an extremely expectant two-thousand-dollar cow."

Stanley directed his gaze, and his next question, to Gage. "What about you?"

"I got to stay with John McKeese, the Swede's partner. I went to bed and woke up in a different place everyday, the entire time I was there."

Their shiftmates were most intrigued.

"How'd you manage that?" the fire officer finally came right out and asked.

The paramedic pulled a thick stack of 4"x6" photographs from one of the side pockets of his navy blue uniform jacket and passed the pictures on to his Captain. "The guy has a 'floating' apartment."

Stanley stared down at the top photo in the stack.

It was a picture of a thirty-foot cabin cruiser.

John continued his narrative. "We'd turn in on Lake Union and wake up in Puget Sound…or we'd be in Elliot Bay and wake up in Bremerton Harbor." He winced. "I can still hear those da—darn fog horns."

His crewmates snickered once again.

The Captain completed his examination of the first photo and passed it on to his engineer. "Sheesh! I can't believe you were actually sleeping on a _boat_. It's winter up there. Isn't it?"

Gage gave him a glum nod. "The temperature stayed in the thirty-degree range. McKeese kept the boat's cabin heated for me. But then insisted on sleeping with the windows open." He sniffled and shuddered. "I may never stop shivering."

His shiftmates shot him insincere looks of sympathy.

Gage winked at his fellow firefighters and then fought back a grin. "I, uh, brought some salmon back with me—"

"—Do _not_ bring any of your salmon into this fire station," their fish-a-phobic Captain promptly requested. "In fact, you can consider that an _order_!"

Gage giggled and the rest of the guys swapped grins.

Stoker studied the sixth picture that was passed on to him. "Man, you can barely make out the car ferry through all that fog."

"That's smoke," the picture taker corrected. "The ferry was on fire."

"That's right," the Captain declared. "I remember hearing something about that on the news last week. Some twit filled the diesel tanks with gasoline."

Mike finally seemed 'somewhat' impressed. "You guys got to lend a hand with _that_?"

Roy gave the engineer a shake of his head. "That was just one of the many things we got to 'observe' while we were in Seattle."

Hank and his engine crew exchanged amused glances.

Kelly glanced up from the fourth photo he'd been handed. "What's this?"

Gage squinted down at the snapshot. "That's Mount Baker, part of the Olympic Range—"

"—Not the mountain," Chet chided. "Thi-is." He pointed to a red stain on some roadway's snow-covered pavement.

John winced and hesitated to reply.

"That's what I thought," Chet muttered and promptly passed the 'bloody' picture on to Marco.

Gage saw Stoker staring down at another photo. "That's the Henry Art Gallery." He directed his gaze over to the pooch that was perpetually dozing upon their sofa. "Which, I'm sorry to say, was _not_ named after _you_, kid."

Henry grumbled disgustedly and rolled over on his couch cushion.

John snickered and turned his attention back to the picture viewers.

Stanley was staring down at one of the photos in confusion.

"Maybe it's upside-down," the picture's taker told him.

Hank flipped the photo and looked more confused than ever.

John finally leaned over and looked down at the picture in his Captain's hands. "Uh-uh…That should've been the Japanese Tea Garden. I must a' forgot to adjust the shutter speed." He snatched the blurred photo, crumpled it up and tossed it into the nearest wastebasket.

Lopez looked up from another snapshot. "Is this snow?"

Gage glanced at the photo in question. "That is what THEY like to call 'a late afternoon frost'," the paramedic replied and swapped grins with his research partner. John saw that Marco was now staring down at a picture of a great big ship. "That's the USS Missouri, docked in Bremerton Harbor. The Japanese surrender, that ended World War II, was signed aboard that ship."

Marco looked duly impressed.

Gage noticed the photo in Kelly's hands. "That's the six-hundred-and-five-foot tall Space Needle," he promptly pointed out.

Chet gave his helpful chum an 'Oh brother' look. "Somehow, I sort a' 'guessed' that's what it was," he sarcastically shot back.

John flashed his mustached fireman friend back a sheepish grin.

* * *

Hank Stanley stood in their rec' room's open doorway, wearing a look of deep concern.

Instead of making their morning coffee, Chet Kelly was just standing there in their kitchen, staring sadly down at one of their six wooden chair's empty seats.

"What was on the porch?" the Captain casually inquired, and finally stepped fully into the room.

"The 'food fairy' paid us another visit," Chet lightly replied and pointed to the groceries on the counter.

The Captain couldn't help but smile. "Ah nuts!" He saw Kelly staring at him in confusion and promptly explained. "I was hoping the 'uniform fairy' might a' showed up, instead."

He and his engine crew had been running around in just their jeans and T-shirts for the past two days.

Hank noticed that Kelly actually seemed _sick_ from worry.

Forget the 'uniform fairy'! What they _really_ needed was for the 'morale fairy' to put in an appearance.

"Think I'll call headquarters and re-request a fresh change of clothing," the Captain announced and quickly took his leave.

* * *

A-Shift's Captain called HQ all right, but it was to inquire about the well being and whereabouts of his paramedics.

Stanley had been calling—several times a day—since this whole 'quarantine' business had started. But his questions had always gone **un**answered.

This morning, however, the 'powers that be' gave the adamant fire officer a 'number' where his missing crewmen could be reached.

Hank hung up on headquarters and promptly dialed 'the' number.

* * *

Forty-five minutes of fast driving away, in NASA's quarantine cubicle…

The videophone '_beep_'ed.

Gage stepped up to the device and pressed the green button. "Mornin', Doc!" he greeted, as a familiar face materialized up on the phone's monitor.

Dr. McComas returned his greeting. "Good morning, John. You have an incoming call. Your Captain is on the 'red' line."

The news caused the young fireman's forced smile to broaden into a genuine grin. "Thanks, Doc!" The paramedic picked up their videophone's futuristic-looking receiver and pressed the 'red' button. "Mornin', Cap!"

"_John!_" his very relieved sounding Captain came back. "_Are you and Roy all right?_"

John glanced at his peacefully sleeping partner.

Roy was sick. But it was from _worry_—and not from some damn deadly _virus_.

"We're both _fine_, Cap. What about you guys? Anybody over there sick?"

"_Everybody here is just fine, too. Well, except for Chet. He's worrying himself sick. Where the heck are THEY keeping you, anyways? I just had to go through a 'mobile operator' to reach you guys._"

John turned back to the monitor and gave their hotel manager a questioning look.

Dr. McComas smiled and nodded.

"We're onboard an aircraft carrier in L.A. Harbor—the USS Fitzsimmons. We are currently 'confined' to NASA's quarantine cubi—"

"—_Just a second, John_," his Captain suddenly interrupted.

* * *

Hank covered his phone's mouthpiece and hollered out, "Kelly?"

"Yeah, Cap?" Kelly yelled back.

"Phone call! My office!"

* * *

Chet promptly appeared in front of his Captain's desk. He took the phone from the fire officer's extended hand and then muttered a tentative, and somewhat breathless, "Hello?"

The look on his lineman's mustached face was priceless, and Hank had everything he could do to keep from chuckling.

Kelly covered the phone. "It's Gage!" he declared with a big, silly grin.

"Yeah," Stanley softly assured him. "I know."

Chet uncovered the phone. "Hey, babe. So…How're you guys doin'?…Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Uh-huh." He placed the palm of his right hand back over the phone's mouthpiece and turned to his Captain. "He _claims_ they're staying in a five-star hotel and that they get to eat steak and lobster every night for dinner," he skeptically reported, and then quickly uncovered the phone. "You _sure_ you ain't delirious? Where are you guys _really_?…Gage, you are such a bull-shitter…Are too! Put your partner on the line, so I can get a legitimate answer…Sleeping? What's he still doing in bed at this hour of the morning?…Yeah. I know you said sleeping. But _why_ is Roy still sleeping?…Uh-huh…Uh-huh…"

As the Captain sat there, listening to his two crewmen's familiar banter, he couldn't help but smile. "Mission accomplished," Hank triumphantly muttered to himself…and the 'morale fairy'. ;)

**TBC**


	14. Chapter 14

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Fourteen**

Later that same afternoon, over in Rampart General Hospital's Emergency Receiving…

Dr. Kelly Brackett returned the phone, on the counter of the Nurses' Station, to its cradle and exhaled a frustrated gasp. He caught his two anxious co-workers' questioning glances and obligingly filled them in. "Atlanta claims it'll be another 24-hours, at the very least, before they know anything _for sure_."

Mike Morton managed a frustrated gasp of his own.

"C'mon." Dixie McCall latched onto the two glum ER doctors' arms and began escorting them off down the corridor, in the direction of the Doctors' Lounge. "I'll buy us a cup of coffee."

* * *

The trio entered the lounge, poured themselves some coffee and then took their seats at a table.

"None of this would have happened," Kel gloomily predicted, "if it wasn't for my 'precious program'!"

Mike recalled how close Kel's 'precious program' had come to being cancelled. He also remembered how happy he'd been to be the bearer of some good news…

* * *

Following the Paramedics' Advisory Committee meeting, Morton had snatched up the signed volunteer sheet and dashed out of the conference room.

* * *

The physician flew through several corridors and then skidded to a stop in front of the open doorway to his colleague's office.

Kel was seated at his desk, gazing glumly down at a stack of untouched paperwork.

Mike gave the door's frame a couple of light taps.

"C'mon in," his bored doctor buddy invited.

"Congratulations, Kel!" Mike exclaimed, as he stepped up to the older doctor's desk. "You're a _father_! Your 'Advanced Paramedical Research Program' has _finally_ given birth! May I present…your 'sons'," he lightly added and passed the program's creator the list of signatures.

Kel looked deliriously happy and leapt to his feet. "All right! Wait til THEY see this!" he triumphantly declared and grinned down at the sign up sheet. "Looks like the entire committee volunteered…"

"To a man!"

Kel gazed down at the first two names on the list and his grin broadened. "It's funny how things turn out sometimes. Roy was just telling me the other day, that he and Johnny wouldn't be volunteering for anymore 'research' programs."

"Yeah," Mike agreed, his own grin broadening. "And now, here they are, practically on their way to Seattle!"

* * *

Mike snapped back to reality. 'Who knew…' he glumly thought to himself, and sat there, staring silently—and sadly—down at the steaming mug of coffee that was cradled in his hands.

* * *

Kel gazed glumly down at the vapors of steam that were rising from his coffee cup and allowed his mind to wander back a week, to the morning of December 16th…

John and Roy had just flown in from Seattle, and the Advanced Paramedical Research Committee had convened in Rampart General's Conference Room A, to _debrief _them.

* * *

The committee consisted of a panel of six emergency room physicians, several local politicians, and another half dozen County Health and Fire Department officials.

The two recently returned researchers were well into their 'debriefing' before somebody from the LACFD finally wondered what the two of them were doing back in L.A. already, when their Seattle assignment was slated to last _two_ weeks.

"Like I said earlier," Roy replied, "Captain Wallace wasn't just a guide. He also seems to be the driving force behind the advancements being made in Seattle's Emergency Services Program. He was able to supply us with a great deal of the information you requested. The majority of the seven days that we _were_ there were spent in the field, observing the Seattle paramedics. So we didn't get to hang around Harborview Medical Center a whole lot. Still, we managed to accomplish everything we were asked to accomplish. Sorry it didn't take the entire two weeks. I guess we just must be fast researchers," the fireman finished with a bashful smile.

His audience was forced to smile, as well.

A lady from County Health looked up from her notes. "What impressed you the most about their Emergency Services Program?"

The two researchers glanced at one another.

John nodded for his partner to go first.

"Speaking for myself," DeSoto began, "I'd say it was the skill the Seattle paramedics displayed in performing emergency surgical procedures in the field. Both the emergency thoracostomy and the emergency pulmonary intubation we witnessed them perform, resulted in saved lives. Lives that would not have _been _saved, if the victims would've had to wait until they reached the surgeons, back at the hospital—" he heard the two white-smocked doctor-types, seated directly across the table from him, murmuring—rather loudly—and stopped talking.

Gage gave the murmuring physicians an annoyed glare and then glanced down at his notes. "I was really surprised to find that, instead of a firetruck full of fancy rescue gear, the Seattle paramedics drive their own ambulance type truck and transport their victims themselves. They said the reason for this is that, while they have fewer people to serve, they also have a much greater area to cover than we do. So they said they have to expedite the transportation of victims from the scene to the hospital. Also, as Roy just mentioned, Seattle's paramedics are certified to perform various emergency surgical procedures in the field—upon a _doctor's_ orders, of course," he stressed, for the benefit of the still murmuring ER docs. "But I guess what really impressed me the _most_, is their treatment procedure for handling coronary patients. The Seattle paramedics deal with their coronary patients _on their own_. _They_ read their electro-cardiograph telemetry scopes, form their own diagnosis of the symptoms, and then _they_ decide what drugs and definitive therapy—if any—should be administered. The Seattle doctors we spoke with, say that they find this method works most efficiently—and effectively—for _their_ circumstances. And, as everyone there frequently pointed out, increased efficiency means decreased spending of valuable time and, least importantly—but not to be ignored—taxpayers dollars."

The two murmuring ER docs stared at one another, and then at the fireman, looking completely flabbergasted.

"Are we to understand," one of the two upset physician's finally demanded, "that it is _better_ procedure to allow **paramedics** to authorize drugs and definitive therapy—_on their own_?"

Gage glared defiantly back at his questioner—er, accuser. "**If** a competent doctor has _certified_ them as being capable," he arched an eyebrow, "yeah!"

The two irate ER doctors turned to one another once more, looking absolutely appalled.

"Why did we even bother to go to medical school?" one of them sarcastically inquired.

An elbow in the ribs from his buddy, kept John from commenting on the ER doc's snide remark.

"Look," DeSoto declared, sounding more than a little peeved himself, "_our_ opinion really doesn't matter. Does it. What really counts, is that the Seattle _doctors_ are confident that they have trained their paramedics well enough to make them perfectly qualified to interpret coronary surveillance and administer the necessary drugs and definitive therapy. The Seattle _doctors_ trust their paramedics' skills and judgment. If the doctors didn't think their paramedics could handle it on their own—they wouldn't _certify_ them."

"Right!" Gage agreed. "Besides, they claim they save a bundle, by not having to place very delicate, sophisticated, expensive continuous bio-telemetry units in the field."

His partner nodded. "They also save time. The Seattle paramedics save precious minutes, by not having to wait for the EKG strips to reach the terminals at hospitals, and then get evaluated by ER doctors, who eventually give them the orders to act."

"Most importantly," John summed up, "it _works_…in Seattle," he specified.

The two skeptical ER docs glared icily back at the firemen.

"Just the same," one of them declared, sounding rather aloof, "we think the Seattle doctors are making a _big_ mistake."

His equally aloof associate nodded in agreement. "They're definitely giving their paramedics too much lee-way and responsibility—virtually opening up a 'Pandora's Box'."

Gage glared right back at them. "Think what you will. The Seattle system _works_—so well, that the Seattle doctors said that they are willing to allow their paramedics to take on all the additional responsibility they are capable of handling—and willing to assume."

The two ER docs glanced at one another again, looking even more disgusted.

As committee chairperson, Kel had been sitting quietly at the head of the conference table, taking in all the questions and comments. He saw the frustration on the faces of his two 'debriefed' friends and finally felt obliged to pose a question of his own. "John, Roy, have you anything more to add?"

"I think we've just about covered everything we evaluated about Seattle's paramedic program," Roy replied. "But you may be interested to hear what they had to say about ours. The doctors and paramedics in Seattle asked us almost as many questions as we asked them, and they were as…astounded by our program, as _certain ones here_ are of theirs. The Seattle doctors told us that they consider Los Angeles County's Emergency Services' Program to be 'backward', 'inefficient' and hence, 'terribly wasteful of time, talent and taxpayers' dollars."

The committee members faces filled with shock.

All except Kel's, that is. "I see," the head of Rampart's Emergency Receiving calmly acknowledged. "And, did they have any suggestions as to how we could improve our system?"

John nodded. "They all agreed that we have to update our laws. They said that, sooner or later, the taxpayers are gonna put an end to wasteful spending and demand 'quality', but not 'costly', emergency health care."

"I see," Kel repeated. "Well, it may interest you to know, that the taxpayers of this county are currently in the process of doing _just that_." He paused to pick up a folder. "This is a copy of Proposition 13—a proposed amendment to the California State Constitution—which, if passed, will cut public property taxes by as much as 50 percent. Which, in turn, would cut the funds available for public spending **in half**." The doctor saw a look of dawning understanding come over his fellow committee members. "That's right, people. We all operate on _tax_ dollars. We get _less_ tax dollars to spend, we're gonna have to spend _less_ tax dollars—"

"—That proposal will never get off the ground," one of the two grumpy ER docs interrupted. "It can't! They can't cut public education budgets _in half_! They can't operate on what they're given now!"

"Proposition 13 has already been placed on the ballots for next June's elections," Kel informed his cranky colleague. "And, as for dealing with reduced budgets," the ER physician paused again, to flash his paramedics an appreciative smile, "John and Roy, here, just set a fine example of saving taxpayers dollars, by cutting expenses and by completing their assignment in half the time they were allotted. Thereby allowing the funds that were originally allocated for the program's _research_, to be reallocated toward _training_." He turned to his fellow committee members. "We could all learn from them and _force_ ourselves to become more _efficient_."

"And 'open-minded'," John quietly tacked on.

The two cantankerous ER docs looked more 'close-minded' and aloof than ever.

The two debriefed paramedics turned to their boss.

Kel flashed the both of them another warm smile. "We'll recruit some new committee members," he promised. "You'd be amazed at how many Seattle-type doctors there are in L.A.."

John and Roy returned his smile and then glanced at one another, looking more than a little relieved.

* * *

Kel sat there, feeling every bit as steamed as his coffee. 'Damn it!' he silently swore.

None of this was supposed to have happened!

He'd sent his paramedics to Seattle on a _fact_ finding mission, not some _deadly virus_ finding mission!

"Damn it!" the flustered physician angrily repeated, this time, aloud.

* * *

Dixie caught Kel's curse and gazed glumly down into her own cup of untouched coffee.

Before leaving the hospital, the two fully 'debriefed' firemen had paid their favorite ER nurse a visit…

* * *

Johnny and Roy rested their elbows upon the counter at the ER's Nurses' Station.

"So…Dix," Gage began, "How long has this 'Advanced Paramedical Research Program' been around?"

"Kel has been busy organizing this thing since the middle of August," Dixie replied and passed them both a cup of coffee.

The two men turned to one another, looking shocked.

"Then, why haven't we heard anything about it, until just now?" the dark-haired paramedic further inquired.

"He's been getting opposition from all sides," the RN explained. "He didn't want you guys to get your hopes up, if it didn't look like the program was gonna make it. Now, he's got two state senators and three representatives who say they're willing to back the program's passage. Senator Joseph Unvers has already introduced the new Emergency Services bill to the state legislature, so they would have time to think about it over the holiday break. Kel is flying up to Sacramento, when the state legislature reconvenes, to do some more 'lobbying'."

Her two favorite firemen smiled and slowly shook their heads, in amazement.

"Why is he doing all this?" John wondered. "I mean, Brackett's already one of the busiest guys I know."

"Yeah," Roy agreed.

"Maybe," Dixie replied, with a wry smile, "it's because he once told me he feels _our_ paramedics have the same skills, knowledge and abilities as the Seattle paramedics. And, that it would be a dirty rotten shame if you guys didn't get the chance to utilize your skills, knowledge and abilities."

The guys glanced at one another again, and grinned.

* * *

Dixie slammed her coffee mug down hard on the table. "Damn it!" she parroted her angry boss.

It _would_ be a dirty rotten shame, if Johnny and Roy _didn't _get the chance to participate in the training part of Kel's 'Advanced Paramedical Program'—and all because of some lousy damn virus!

The angry RN glanced up from her spilt coffee and saw the deeply concerned looks on her colleagues' faces. "Sorry," she grumbled. "Guess I don't do 'waiting' very well."

"Yeah. And just imagine what _Johnny and Roy _must be going through," Mike Morton solemnly proposed.

The 'maximum quarantined' firemen's three friends exchanged extremely gloomy glances.

**TBC**

Author's note:

_Well, my story stats started working again on Friday afternoon. Alas, I had no sooner finished sending a 'Thank you' email to the support people, when the stats stopped working-again. lololol I know nine people took the time to review Chapter 13, but I have no idea-whatsoever-how many people took the time to read it. lol_

_The lime spreader guy came yesterday. The lime spreader looks like a ginormous three-wheeler. :) After he spread the lime on the worked up fields, our friend who occasionally drives tractor for us came to 'work the lime into the ground' with the cultivator-a huge flat contraption with giant claws that scratch the dirt all up._

_I told our friend, Bryan, that (sung to the tune "Lime In The Coconuts") We put the lime in the barley fields and mix it all up. We put the lime in the barley fields and mix it all to-ge-e-e-e-ther. lolol Now that song is stuck in our heads. lolol_

_I spent the entire day today fixing my horses' fence. There was a short in the electric wire somewhere, took me all %&* day to find it. Got blisters on both hands from pruning back the ever present weeds from the fence. :(_

_Anyway, thanks to all who took the time to read and review the last chapter...and the chapter before that. :) ((((readers))))_

_Hope you enjoy Chapter Fourteen. *fingers crossed*_

_Take care! *wave wave*_

_:)Ross7_


	15. Chapter 15

"Freedom Is Just a State of Mind"

**Chapter Fifteen**

Twenty-four _agonizing_ hours later, in NASA's quarantine cubicle…

Of the two of them, John seemed to be taking the transition—from 'going non-stop' to 'not _going_ at all'—the hardest.

The cooped up fireman had taken to viewing the doctor's videotapes whilst walking, because he simply could no longer sit still.

Roy _had_ been using 'reading' as a distraction. That is, until his ever-increasing worry began causing all the words to run together. When he had to read the same paragraph twice, just to get the gist of it, he'd finally given up.

To release his 'pent up' energy, and to avoid climbing the cubicle's walls, he had also started taking long, leisurely walks on their treadmill.

The restless rescuers were keeping track of the miles they were traversing.

Between the two of them, they had covered a vast distance.

* * *

"I can see a sign up ahead," John jokingly announced, upon completing a combined total of fifty miles.

"Oh yeah. What's it say?" Roy insincerely wondered.

"Welcome To Riverside. Population: 1,853,420," his partner replied.

Roy looked smug. "I told you we would prob'ly reach Riverside, before news from Atlanta reached us."

His partner stepped off the treadmill and collapsed into an exhausted heap on his bunk. "Your turn."

Roy got stiffly to his feet and took his partner's place on the treadmill.

"What time is it?" Johnny mumbled.

"Why do you keep asking me that?" Roy irritatedly inquired. "Why can't you just 'look at the clock'?"

"Because that would require me to move _more_ than just my mouth," John replied, with wry grin, and just lay there, staring up at their painted ceiling.

Roy rolled his eyes, but then obligingly glanced at his wrist. "It's twenty minutes past seven."

John's jaw slowly dropped. "But that means it's been—"

"—Over 72 hours," his fireman friend finished for him.

"I feel like an astronaut must feel, at T-minus 10 and holding," John realized, sounding every bit as miserable as he looked.

"Yeah," his buddy solemnly, and somewhat breathlessly, agreed. "Me, too."

"You think it's a bad sign, that it's taking longer than 72 hours?"

"Not necessarily…THEY said: _At least_ 72 hours…Which means, it could be…even _days_ longer."

Gage's sweat-glistening face instantly filled with concern and he snapped bolt upright in his bunk. "Whatever happened to your_ 'No, it couldn't!_' attitude?"

"Guess I've just come to accept the fact…that I'm probably **not**…going to be spending Christmas…with Joanne and the kids," Roy breathlessly replied, his soft-spoken words reflecting the disappointment and heartache he was quite obviously experiencing.

His fireman friend's sadder than sad statement caused John's own heart to break. "You can't just 'give up'—just like _that_," he emphasized, with a snap of his fingers. "Look. THEY say that our minds possess tremendous amounts of potential 'kinetic energy'. Dr. Vandertine was right. We should never underestimate the 'power' of _positive_ thinking. What a' yah say, we 'harness' that power…and use it to open that door?" he proposed, and pointed to their prison's sealed portal.

The corners of Roy's frowning mouth turned up somewhat and he gazed disbelieving back at his delusional partner.

John was not least bit deterred by his buddy's highly doubtful look. "Okay then. _I'll_ do it—alone. I'm just gonna sit here…and stare at that door…until it opens." The fireman directed his 'fully focused' gaze toward the sealed entrance to their quarantine quarters, and started concentrating—very _hard_.

The thought of his partner 'thinking' the door open amused Roy to no end, and helped ease the tension of the moment—considerably. He kept right on walking, and staring at his friend—who was staring so intently at the little compartment's locked exit.

* * *

Several silent miles, and a full fifteen minutes later…

The walker continued to find his friend's expression of serious concentration highly entertaining. "Good thing I haven't been…holding my breath."

"Oh, hush," John lightly scolded. "Your 'negative vibes' are gonna interfere with my 'positive energy flow', here."

His breathless buddy's grin broadened. "You've got _something_…flowing over there…all right.

Roy's latest remark caused an exasperated gasp to escape from his 'concentrating' companion. But John's brow remained deeply furrowed and his intense gaze remained riveted upon the quarantine cubicle's locked portal.

A loud '_hiss_'ing sound filled the compartment, and there was a slight change in pressure, as the airtight seal around the door was suddenly broken. The portal slid open and a breeze entered the cubicle, carrying along with it the distinctive aura of salty ocean.

Roy stepped off the treadmill and aimed a look of utter astonishment at his equally stunned partner.

The cubicle's dumbstruck occupants turned their attention back to the open door.

Dr. Jack McComas and Midshipman Cary Greyson were standing there on the carrier deck, doubled over in silent laughter.

"We were eavesdropping on you guys, when the news came in from Atlanta," NASA's Contagion and Contaminant expert explained, between mirthful chuckles. "And…well…we just couldn't resist. Besides, we had to inform you of the results 'somehow', and _this_ seemed to be as good a way as any," he innocently added.

The two unquarantined Los Angeles County firemen/paramedics looked extremely skeptical as to the truthfulness of the still-grinning physician's last statement.

"Congratulations, gentlemen!" the doctor declared, stepping into the cubicle and extending his hand.

Both firemen took it and shook it.

"Your bodies' immune systems successfully conquered the virus, and you have been passing 'immunity' on to everyone you've had 'close personal contact' with."

The cubicle's guests glanced at one another again, this time, looking tremendously relieved.

McComas made a point of examining the little black book that lay open on one of the cubicle's counters. "There's been a slight oversight, gentlemen. Your signatures are missing from the hotel's Guest Registry."

"We aren't astronauts," Roy replied.

McComas sighed. "Yeah. I know. And it's a darn shame. Because the two of you would make _damn fine_ ones! However, this is a 'guest' registry—not an 'astronaut' registry, and it's been a real pleasure to have you as our guests!" That said, the hotel's manager shoved the open book across the counter and passed them a pen.

"This just doesn't seem right," John muttered, as he and his partner reluctantly took turns signing the registry. "I mean, we're _not_ from 'out of this world'."

The doctor's eyes sparkled with amusement and he and 'room service' swapped grins. "No comment," was all their hotel manager would say on _that_ particular matter.

His firemen guests were forced to grin.

"Well, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm sure you're both anxious to get out of here. So, if you'll just remove each other's IV catheters…" McComas hinted, "the Health Department van is waiting down on the dock, to take you back to your fire station. You can keep the clothes, if you like."

"Thanks, Doc!" the freed paramedics replied, speaking in perfect unison.

Dr. Jack McComas and Midshipman Cary Greyson exchanged amused glances once again.

* * *

Once their catheters were removed and their clothes were changed, John and Roy re-shook their hotel manager's hand.

"Thanks for _everything_, Doc," John told him. "Your little...'hotel', here, certainly deserves its five-star rating."

"You are most welcome," McComas assured them. "I'm just glad it all turned out so well for you guys. Take care of yourself, John. Try to slow your pace a little and don't forget to take that prescription I gave you...or _this_," he added and passed the paramedic his Sign book.

"I already have one—"

"—You have _two_," McComas quickly corrected.

"Actually, I still only have _one_. The other Sign book I have is just borrowed," John explained.

"Bye, Doc," Roy spoke up. "And, thanks—again—for your hospitality."

The doctor grinned and waved.

The two paramedics took one last parting look around their hotel room, and then promptly 'checked out'.

* * *

Forty-five minutes of fast driving later…

The health department van deposited its unquarantined cargo in the pick up spot: Station 51's back parking lot.

"Thanks for the lift!" the two freed firemen told the vehicle's driver, in tandem.

The guy nodded and waved goodbye.

They watched the vehicle turn around and drive away.

"The first thing I'm gonna do," Johnny announced, "is call Toni, and find out if she's even still speaking to me."

"You're welcome to use _my_ phone…" Roy offered.

Gage flashed his partner a grateful grin. "I appreciate the invite," he noticed that their engine crew's cars were absent from the lot, "but it looks like B-Shift was called in early, to replace us." The 'on-duty' paramedic pointed to the unfamiliar vehicles that were parked beside theirs. "Which means, I gotta bunk _here_ for the next two nights."

"Why-y?"

"I promised Lorey I'd work B for him. Remember?"

"You can't work B for Lorey! What about your elbow?"

"My elbow is just dandy. It's not nearly as sore anymore. Don't worry. I promise, I'll keep it 'cushioned'," he added and swapped smiles with his 'mother hen' friend.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny!" Roy called out, as his partner began heading for their fire station's back door. 'Johnny's _home away from home,_' the family man silently realized.

"Merry Christmas, Roy!" John called back over his shoulder.

Roy slipped in behind the wheel of his little yellow sportscar. He couldn't wait to get home to his wife and kids—his _healthy_ wife and kids.

Gage suddenly remembered something. "Oh. By the way…"

DeSoto rolled his window down.

"What are you giving Joanne for Christmas this year?"

"Me!" Roy replied with a grin, and tapped his chest a couple of times.

Johnny was more than a little amused to hear his partner's reply. "In that case, I suggest you drive _extra_ carefully," he strongly advised. "It's too late _now_ to get her something else," he lightly explained.

Roy's smile broadened.

His wryly-grinning buddy waved and then disappeared into the redbrick building.

DeSoto ignited his car's engine and then drove—_extra_ carefully—off in the direction of his home…and his 'other' family.

**The End**

**

* * *

****EPILOGUE**

John stepped up to his locker and jerked its door open. The dreaded 'sprong' sound resounded in the room and he got a face full of big, fluffy-white snowflakes.

The flakey fireman's head slowly turned in the direction of another dreaded sound, that of hearty laughter. John cracked his eyes open and fluttered the flakes from his lashes.

Half of B-Shift's crew was crammed into the locker room's open doorway.

Gage gave the giggling group an icy glare and the front of his snowflaked shirt a cold stare.

The snowflakes were not melting. They couldn't melt. They were artificial—but very realistic looking.

So much so, that gazing down at them almost made him wanna shiver. The paramedic bent over and shook the flakes from his hair. Then he straightened back up and began brushing them from his chest and shoulders.

"Cap," he heard Chase Powell say, "There's this guy I know at work. Great looking hair—but that _dandruff_!"

The lineman's lighthearted comment evoked another round of robust laughter.

Gage flashed his fellow firefighters a grin and then glanced up at the top shelf of his locker.

There was a typewritten note taped to the bottom of the spring device's little shallow bowl. It said simply:

'Seasons' Greetings

From

The Phantom Bomber'

John Gage's grin returned and broadened. "Ho. Ho. Ho," he bemusedly declared and then left the locker room, to fetch a dustpan and a broom. It felt good to be _free_ again.

But it felt even better to be _home_.

* * *

Author's note:

_For the past two days now, we have been experiencing extremely windy weather. Sustained winds of 30 to 35 mph, with frequent gust of up to 50 to 60 mph. The high winds toppled trees-everywhere-and took out our power for over 26 and a half hours!_

_We finally got our electricity back around 2:30 this afternoon. We've had more fire calls in the last 48 hours, than we had in the last 48 DAYS. When the trees fall on the power lines, they catch on fire. When the lines come down on roads and highways, they create an extreme safety hazard. So I've been real busy battling potential brushfires and directing-and detouring-traffic. In between fire calls, I've been trying to get this E! fic' finished. It seemed like everytime I would pick up my pen and begin to write-my pager would go off. lolol It ain't easy trying to read and write with just the **dim** light of an oil lamp, either. Don't know how our ancestors ever managed. lolol  
_

_Sure hope the high winds die down SOON!_

_Also hope you have enjoyed this story. *fingers crossed*_

_Thanks for reading and reviewing! ((((readers)))))_

_Take care! *wave wave*_

_:)Ross7_

_P.S._

_For those who were wondering why we 'put the lime in the barley fields and mix it all up' ;)...Alfalfa requires a certain PH in the soil in order for it to germinate and grow, and next spring, we will be reseeding the barley fields with alfalfa. :)  
_


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